


Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan

by wearwind



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, But only up to a point, Crack, Dorian's POV, Dorian's favourite past-time is annoying people, Dorian's journey of self-realisation, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Slavery, Still drama though, Varric should be paid the therapist's wage at this point, Witty Dorian Is Witty, pretty much everybody - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearwind/pseuds/wearwind
Summary: Fenris arrives in Skyhold. Dorian decides to lay low. Hilarity ensues… at least until Dorian’s mind is blown in an unexpected way.A whole lot of crack and witticisms with building drama. It gets serious. Finished, updated regularly. Same universe as Tomorrow and Choice of the Champion.





	1. In which the advantages of being Antivan are argued convincingly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AryaTred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AryaTred/gifts).



> Welcome to the Extraordinary Antivan! This is a standalone, finished story in eight chapters, which will be published regularly. It is within the universe of [Tomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8641366/chapters/19817416) and [Choice of the Champion](https://archiveofourown.org/series/574537) (both available on my profile), but can be read as a standalone. (To understand most of the references throughout this fic, you can read just [Sea and Lightning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8519701/chapters/19528294).)
> 
> Alright, folks, be forewarned: down there be **crack**. Mostly either thought up or caused by Dorian. And because it is *that* kind of fic, I should also note a HEAVY content warning about slavery and slavery-related awfulness; you'll notice when it gets serious, and when it does, it gets DEAD SERIOUS. So do consider that. There is no violence other than the canon-typical variety, but some of Dorian's memories can be upsetting to the reader.
> 
> Special thanks and congrats to [Ari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AryaTred/pseuds/AryaTred), to whom this whole work is dedicated, for passing her quantum mechanics exam and thus making me finish this silly prompt as a prize. She is also the proud creator of His Inquisitorialness Fenriel Lavellan, and very much the engine behind the entire _Antivan_. This is, hopefully, only the first installment of the Extraordinary Series, so you might see more of Fenriel, Dorian, Hawke, and Fenris in the near future.
> 
> In the meantime, subscribe and enjoy our brainchild! **CRACKY CRACKY CRACK**.
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter list:**
> 
> Chapter 1, In which the advantages of being Antivan are argued convincingly  
> Chapter 2, In which a grooming defeat is had  
> Chapter 3. In which Josephine is acquainted with the trials and tribulations of phonetics  
> Chapter 4, In which a nerve is touched  
> Chapter 5, In which Dorian and Vivienne consider the issue of class inequality  
> Chapter 6, In which Cole tries to help  
> Chapter 7, In which a choice is made  
> Chapter 8. Epilogue, in which the Inquisitor is not impressed, and the benefits of a good title are discussed

_I told ye then he should prevail, and speed_

_On his bad errand; Man should be seduced,_

_And flattered out of all, believing lies_

_Against his Maker; no decree of mine_

_Concurring to necessitate his fall,_

_Or touch with lightest moment of impulse_

_His free will, to her own inclining left_

_In even scale._

_But fallen he is; and now_

_What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass_

_On his transgression,--death denounced that day?_

_Which he presumes already vain and void,_

_Because not yet inflicted, as he feared,_

_By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find_

_Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end._

_Justice shall not return as bounty scorned._

(John Milton, _Paradise Lost_ , 10:40-54)

 

Dorian Pavus prided himself on being a bookworm first and an ass-kicker second.

The Inquisition included a vast number of ass-kickers, to the point at which the prowess at your elemental magic – or surprise beheadings, or throwing people into a brick wall and breaking the wall – had begun to devalue. Dorian supposed that it was that realisation exactly that _ruffled the feathers_ of the dear, golden-haired, pouty-lipped Commander Rutherford. They were fully staffed on brute strength and deadly spells; there was hardly anything Dorian could kill that Cassandra couldn’t with half the time and double the amount of squirting blood. No, no, _no;_ it was simply no use trying to out-brutalise the Southerners. Instead, Dorian knew, he was kept around for way more than ass-kicking. Way more than his dashing good looks, even.

He was kept around because the amount of consecutive hours he was willing – and happy – to spend in a library highly exceeded that of a standard literate human. In other words, Dorian Pavus was a bookworm.

The Inquisitor had ridden off somewhere, taking Solas, Cole, and Iron Bull along, and Dorian couldn’t pretend not to be happy that he had. Lovely lad that he was, there tended to be _way_ too much commotion wherever he stepped. He simply did not understand that regardless of whether there was a war on or not, there was time in a man’s life where he would just sit down with a bottle of smuggled Tevinter whiskey, open an old tome on necromancy, and-

The click of the door echoed up from the rotunda, accompanied by some familiar murmuring, and Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh.

Right. There was _two_ of them now.

Hawke walked into the library with a familiar swagger of a woman accustomed – expecting, almost – to draw the full attention of the room. She wasn’t mistaken either, as even the Tranquils looked up at the noise her leather books were making on the padded library floor.

Dorian liked Hawke, he really did. She was a deliciously mischievous mix of bad puns and headbutting destruction, and she had definitely added colour to Skyhold tavern scene ever since she’d arrived a couple of weeks ago, along with the legend of _the most wanted apostate on this side of Thedas_. But neither she nor the Lavellan lad ever, _ever_ respected a man’s right to just sit down and remain unbothered for however long it took to finish off a book.

“Pavus,” she announced, waltzing right into his corner and throwing herself into the chair he’d prepared for his reading ritual. Dorian winced visibly. “We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands.”

Dorian cast her a glance heavily weighed down by sarcasm. “Ah, a _situation_. What kind of primordial evil have you let loose from a Warden prison _this_ time?”

 Hawke pressed a palm to her heart. “That hurts my feelings. You know what I do when people hurt my feelings, Pavus.”

“Vacate their armchairs and disappear from their life forever?” suggested Dorian in a hopeful tone. Hawke grinned at him, a shark-like spark in her eye.

“Close, but no. It’s actually walk on without passing a dire warning that might pertain to the offender’s wellbeing and, slash, or survival.”

Something in her voice made him suppress a deep shudder. “Very well, Hawke, spill it. What did you do, and how lethal is it?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything. Well, maybe I did, but that’s personal. He’s lethal enough, though.” Hawke chuckled to herself, and Dorian raised a single disapproving brow at her. ”You might need to work on your blending in for a while, Pavus.”

Dorian made a sweeping flourish at his own chest. “Does this body look like something that could ever _blend in?_ Frankly, the very idea is revolting.”

“I’m serious. This attire of yours, this obnoxious accent, this… whatever caterpillar you’re keeping on  your upper lip… is going to cost you a world of pain very soon.”

 “And you, my dear, are just ignorant to the intricacies of Minrathous fashion. Woefully so.”

“That… is the problem,” said Hawke after a brief pause. “See… how much of the _Tale of the Champion_ has Varric managed to feed you?”

Dorian reached in the bookshelves and, without looking, located the thick tome and tossed it onto Hawke’s lap. “Well-written, but rather… sensationalist, if I might say. You should try living less outrageously.”

“Uh. Thanks, I guess.” Hawke winced, picking up the heavy, leather-clad book and dropping it on the floor with a slightly haunted expression. That little tidbit of a reaction told Dorian a long and painful story including Hawke, the book, and an entirely too eager an audience. “So you’ve read about my, uh, romantic choices as well?”

“Ah, yes. The lyrium warrior. I’d be happy to examine _that…_ ”

A subtle shift in Hawke’s face told Dorian that it was a very unfortunate turn of phrase. He cleared his throat. “If, of course, I could obtain his consent for it. And yours, probably. Depends on how attractive I might end up finding him.”

“Let me say that again, Pavus. Fenris is here. And if he finds you, _he’ll kill you._ ”

Dorian shot her a sideways glance, waiting for a punchline. Then, ascertaining she was actually serious _,_ he laughed in earnest. “Here? In the library? In the middle of an Inquisition stronghold? Kill the personal favourite of the Herald of Andraste, Saviour of Thedas, His Inquisitorialness Fenriel Lavellan? Oh, Hawke. And first things first, whatever for?”

Hawke slowly shook her head. “You’re so dead.”

  “Get out of my chair, Hawke. You’re making it hard for me to ignore you.”

“I’ll just… get yourself an alibi, Pavus, alright? Drop the accent at least.” Hawke stood up, casting him a glance that Dorian found difficult to process. If he had any desire to do that in the first place. “Try Antiva. You look similar enough to an Antivan at least.”

“So typical of you women! Dashing off, but not before twisting the knife!” he called after her as Hawke’s steps echoed down the stairwell, settling himself down on the armchair and finally taking a sip out of the thrice-forbidden whisky. He promptly ditched all thoughts about Southerner apostates and their bloodthirsty boyfriends out of his head. It had been entirely too long since he had last read Altus Ithlius’ stance on the technical difficulties in reanimation of corpses over fifty years old…

 

***

 

After entirely too short a time, the book became tedious. Ithlius’ solution to tissue rearrangement proved repetitive enough, and Dorian could point out at least three other tomes that laid out the same argument in _vastly_ more eloquent ways. _Focus on bone reconstruction first_ , really! What was he, an apprentice? It was not the _bones_ that the modern necromancy had a problem with, it was the muscle tissue – a subject infinitely more complex and also one that, very conveniently, Ilthius chose to ignore in his slightly preachy prose. Scoffing, Dorian closed the book carefully, put it back, hid the Tevinter whisky in the stone niche behind the bookshelf, and ventured down to wash off the aftertaste of bad reading with something refreshingly more mind-numbing.

The tavern never disappointed.

Varric was already there, which was not news. Dorian had heard that before Skyhold, the dwarf _lived_ in a tavern – a revolting thought, which nonetheless explained a lot about the colour of his writing. He slid down onto the bench beside the dwarf, begrudgingly admitting that Varric knew a thing or two about choosing the seat with the view; from their position, propped safely against the wall and close to a corner, they could watch everything without the fear of drawing attention.

“Any dreadful gossip I haven’t managed to catch?”

“Evening, Sparkler.” Varric nodded at him. ”Just that Hawke’s favourite elf is in town now. You should probably lay low for a while.”

“Oh, please.” Dorian rolled his eyes. He’d been told it gave quite an effect. “Being pounced at the moment men see me is a burden, but never before has it proven life-threatening.”

Varric gave a strange chuckle. “It might be the wrong kind of pouncing you’re thinking about.”

“ _Is_ there a wrong kind of pouncing?”

“You’ll tell me in a moment,” said Varric, his shit-eating grin betraying something that Dorian was suddenly very uncomfortable with. “See that elf with Hawke over there?”

Dorian’s eyes followed Varric’s, and there was indeed a dark-skinned elf at Hawke’s side on the other side of the room, close to the Chargers’ usual spot. Even if he couldn’t have discerned his face, the white hair and the silver lines of tattoos covering his neck and shoulders were enough to identify the famous Little Wolf. Dorian had been just a kid when Danarius had held his famous tournament for the right to bear lyrium marks, but he still remembered the way his father, uncles, and just about all the alti in Minrathous couldn’t shut up about it for weeks on end. It was hard to believe that half-starved, small elven slave only couple of years his senior had made it all the way to the South – and straight into the arms of the Champion.

Then again, Danarius never came back from his business trip to the Marches…

“Alright, Varric, I see the elf. What now?”

“Now you shut up and observe. This should be interesting.”

Dorian opened his mouth to argue – mostly on principle, really – but then the raised voices reached him across the room. The elf was struggling to get himself out of Hawke’s grasp, with the awkwardness of someone trying very hard _not_ to use his killer instincts.

“ _Let go of me,_ Hawke!”

“Like hell I will. You’re not starting _another_ diplomatic incident after-”

“Don’t even try to bring this up. That was your fault! Let me go _right now._ ”

“Fenris!”

“You having a problem with him over there, ma’am?” Krem’s voice cut through the quarrel. Hawke visibly paled at the sound of his voice, and her elf-

Dorian had never seen anyone move so fast before.

The elf was pressing Krem to the floor with an obviously murderous intent. Half the soldiers in the tavern reached for their weapons; the other half were already mid jump. The Chargers were the first to reach him; it took the elf a second to disarm one of Bull’s men – Grim, Dorian remembered hazily – and knock him over with the hilt of his own weapon. After that their view was blocked by the crowd of _the entire tavern_ coming to up to beat up the elf and _obviously failing,_ and Dorian started feeling a little bit uneasy-

“ _Stop!_ ” Hawke’s shrilling voice cut through the mess.

And, unlikely scenario as it was, everybody froze mid step.

“All Inquisition soldiers, calm down. Sit back down and have a Maker-damned drink. Fenris, _take your hand out of that man’s chest._ ”

Dorian stuttered.

With the now-cleared view, he had a front seat on the bone-chilling scene happening in the other corner. To the horror of everybody but, apparently, Hawke, every line of the lyrium tattoo on the elf’s skin was glowing. And his hand was very clearly and obviously _wrist-deep in Krem’s chest._

“Fenris,” sounded Hawke’s insistent voice.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Vint?” growled the Little Wolf. Dorian felt a cold shiver travel down his spine. “You have ten seconds before I rip your heart out.”

“He got into the army because his family was forced into slavery!” said Hawke with chilling voice. “A magister got them out of business, and so his father sold himself for him to be free. He’s not even fighting _for_ Tevinter anymore. _Hand out of his chest, Fenris._ ”

Dorian was very aware of the rapid sound his own heart was making in his chest. He was suddenly very keen on keeping it there.

The elf growled, but obeyed. The wrist phased out of Krem’s chest, leaving the skin and leathers unharmed. The soldier coughed.

“What the fuck just happened, Hawke? Get your dogs under control.”

“One more word, and it’ll be _my_ hand you’ll be worrying about,” replied Hawke, her voice a tone colder. “You’re lucky I like you, Krem.”

The Charger went back to his corner, muttering obscenities in Tevene – rather creatively, Dorian admitted. The Little Wolf retreated to Hawke’s table, where the Champion of Kirkwall was slowly stewing in her own brand of fury. He could not hear the rest, murmured as it was, but what he could discern sounded like _just like the last time_ and _not everything speaking with a Tevene accent is your mortal enemy._ The elf, meanwhile, somehow succeeded at looking simultaneously sheepish and pissed.

Drawing a long breath, Dorian turned back to Varric. He suspected some of the shock was still showing on his face, because the dwarf was grinning in an entirely too disconcerting a way.

“Well, that was fun,” said the dwarf, and, Maker help him, he probably meant it. Sick bastard.

“Is that… a regular occurrence?” Dorian asked in a weak voice. _He just thrust a hand into a man’s chest and threatened to rip out the heart. Just for having a Tevene accent._

“Normally, no. We tend to keep him away from Vints as a general rule. These we like, we warn beforehand.”

Dorian raised his head and immediately regretted it. Across the room, the Little Wolf’s eyes moved through Varric and fixed on him. They were not kind. They were the exact opposite of kind.

He had just enough dignity left not to swallow loudly.

“Antiva. Definitely Antiva.”

Varric chuckled. “Yeah. Thought so.”

 


	2. In which a grooming defeat is had

 “No, Dorian,” said Josephine without raising her eyes from the documents. Dorian leaned over her desk in an even more annoying fashion.

“The least you can do is hear my plea. We make time for every Avvar mutt and wanted criminal we pick up along the way, surely you can find a minute to listen to a dear old _personal friend?_ ”

“If this is about the crate of whisky found in your room, I’m very sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Leliana is very clear on the rules about alcohol in the tower. Now, if there isn’t anything else…”

“Found in my-” Dorian stuttered. Then forcibly reminded himself that being disembowelled was momentarily higher on his priority list than drinking whisky. “We’ll get back to that. I would still have a _humble_ request, Josephine…”

She sighed, putting down the quill. “Alright, Dorian. How can I help you?”

“I need your expertise on how to be Antivan so I can turn myself into one for the time being.”

He had to give it to the diplomatic advisor: she was good. It took her less than two seconds to rearrange the surprised and very indignant look on her face into something nice and pleasant.

“No, Dorian.”

“You’re _literally_ killing me, Josephine.”

“Now, now, Altus Pavus,” she chastised, turning her eyes back down to the document “One would assume that someone as well-read as yourself would have had some practice discerning _literally_ and _figuratively._ ”

“I memorised a dictionary before I turned six, Josephine. And I can assure you that you are quite _plainly_ leading me to a violent, painful demise, bringing down the wrath of the Inquisitor whose personal favourite I remain.”

“And the only solution to your _violent, painful demise_ is to be Antivan.”

“Indeed so.”   

“Tell me, Dorian,” she offered, ”would you consider the possibility that maybe, perhaps you could be exaggerating?”

He made a dramatic flourish. “I would _never._ ” Josephine sent him a pointed glance; joke was on her, however. Appealing to Dorian’s shame was an endeavour doomed from the start. “Say, Josephine… how much do you know about Champion of Kirkwall’s love life?”

He thought the Antivan blushed slightly. Or it could just be the rose-tinted glass in the windows. “Not at much as Cassandra, I imagine, but a… considerable amount.” No, definitely a blush. “Still, it would be rather rude to recount it, now that serah Fenris is in Skyhold.”

Dorian looked at her very intently. “Yes. _Fenris_ is in _Skyhold._ ”

And, just like that, Josephine paled. If, having seen what he had in the tavern, Dorian ever doubted again that his life was in danger, that was proof enough. Apparently even in the diplomatic circles, the very name of the elf stood for _ultra-efficient Tevinter-killing machine of death and revenge._

“My sincere apologies, Dorian. It _is_ after all sensible that you’ve come to me.” Josephine moved the pile of documents aside and set her quill down in a decisive gesture that, for some reason, sent a shiver down Dorian’s spine. “I will alert Leliana. We shall begin immediately.”

Blinking, Dorian wondered whether he might have started something he would end up regretting. _Deeply._

Still, anything was better than being vivisected by a flesh-phasing angry elf with a grudge, right? Right?

 

-/-

 

“Shave,” ordered Leliana dispassionately, and Dorian’s train of thought ground to a halt.

“Pardon me, sweet lady Nightingale, what did you say? Surely my ears have deceived me.”

Josephine gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes. Antivan fashion does not allow moustaches this year. Well spotted, Leli, it was almost too obvious to notice. The hair will have to change, too, perhaps we can arrange with Cullen’s barber-”

“Firstly, _don’t be ridiculous_. Secondly, I’m presuming that the barber deals with our dear Commander’s feather mane? Heavens know he’s not managing the _hair_.”

Leliana eyed him up and down thoughtfully. Suddenly Dorian had very unpleasant sensation of feeling like a corpse on display, one that wasn’t not quite stinking yet but whose garments would have to be chosen carefully not to show the decay. It was a surprisingly vivid image.

He _would not_ gulp loudly. He had _integrity._

“And the clothes? We still have some of the Antivan ambassador’s wardrobe after he left last month, and they’re fairly fashionable for the season, but not... quite the same size. We will have to have them tailored.” Josephine’s quill was dancing on her pad as she was taking her quick, efficient notes that amounted to the bringers of destruction. “They cannot be made too conspicuous either. The less attention the change will attract, the better.”

“Finally, my dear Josephine. We agree on something.”

“It is fortunate that the Inquisitor is not here,” said Leliana, looking straight through Dorian. “Otherwise it might be difficult for the two of you to keep up the pretences.”

Dorian raised his chin and sent her an absolutely scorching glare back. “I’ll have you know that the Inquisitor and I are capable of the utmost discretion.”

Leliana looked him dead in the eye. “ _Summerday._ ”

Dorian opened his mouth to retort something witty and brilliant, but to his terror, nothing came. It wasn’t his fault that the Inquisitor had got horribly drunk on the Feast of Summerday, now, was it? It’s not like he’d _expected_ this small, wiry Dalish to be such a lightweight. Then again…

“I’ll send word to the Inquisitor that he should not hurry back to Skyhold. Hawke mentioned they would be leaving in a fortnight, we can contain the situation until then.”

 _Fortnight?_ Dorian pouted. As much as he enjoyed his peace and quiet in the library, not seeing Lavellan for two weeks was another thing entirely. Especially now that whisky was out of the equation.

“Say, Josephine… Can’t we just sent the bloodthirsty elf away, as opposed to the Inquisitor? I happen to know a person who would be delighted with that kind of switch.”

Josephine’s face crinkled indignantly. “Goodness gracious, Dorian!” Again, was that the rose-tinted glass in her office, or was the blush creeping up the ambassador’s cheeks once more? Dorian groaned internally. But _of course_ Josephine’s crush of choice would be the dark, brooding hero with a heavy past and homicidal tendencies. Who just so happened to have a very murderous intent towards his own person. _Of course._

“It is known that the Champion of Kirkwall comes with a package,” said Leliana matter-of-factly, but her eyes were glimmering. She looked Dorian straight in the eye, and suddenly the room got darker. And colder. That was the only plausible reason why a terrible chill ran down his spine. “I am told it is not up for debate. And, if forced to choose… regardless of the Inquisitor’s personal preference… the Inquisition will benefit more from having the Champion than yourself.”

Leliana very slowly stood from her chair. Dorian watched her, speechless. He was suddenly very vividly reminded of the sound Fenris’ fist made as it exited Krem’s chest. _If he rips out your heart, do you still get to hear it in your final moments? Maker, what a terrifying last thought._  

Leliana’s smile was very much like a shark’s.

“I already offered you my advice, Dorian, and for the sake of our friendship, I will repeat myself this once. _Shave._ ”

 

-/-

 

Dorian prodded at his upper lip experimentally.

“This,” he said to the mirror flatly, watching his mouth move in shapes that seemed inherently _weird_ now that there was no hairline to contour them, “is what defeat looks like.”

His face was naked. There was no other word for it. He was a sixteen-year-old again, chasing pretty boys in the murky alleyways of southern Minrathous and scoffing at necromancy teachers who pretended to know all the answers. Looking at the face in the mirror, Dorian conceded that he did look rather deserving of all those annoyed comments to his father. Just a snarky teenager, and very little more…

Until his gaze stopped on the hair. Oh, Maker, the hair. They did drag him to Cullen’s barber, and if he wanted to keep his sanity as _roughly_ intact as he emerged from it, he needed to be very, very, _very_ firmly committed never to think about that encounter. A Southern barbarian with a razor-sharp blade to his head was hardly anything new, but at least usually, he was allowed to reciprocate with some cleverly aimed death magic. This, however…

He’d fought, and he’d lost. Josephine was very adamant in what she wanted, and the barber had looked as if, after months of grooming soldiers, he’d been rewarded with a trip to his personal heaven of creative licence. His hair was now partly shaved over his ear, with the rest combed over the hairless spot like a balding man’s toupee. His proud waves of chestnut glory had been mercilessly straightened, and cut in a haphazard, irregular manner that’d had Dorian almost in tears as he’d watched his smooth curls chip away, only to be replaced by ragged chaos. Truly, after this whole ordeal was over, his hair was best suited to be just shaven off completely; nothing short of scorched earth would ever blot out this indignity.

He’d tried combing it back, and to the other side, and – in the final fit of desperation – up in an Avvar ponytail. The only worthwhile finding from that endeavour was that contrary to his beliefs, it _was_ possible to look even more appalling. It seemed like his best hope was just to leave it as it was and, heavens permitting, find some appropriate-looking cap to hide his shame until the thrice-damned Hawke and her beastly companion left Skyhold. The jarring lack of facial hair was more difficult to hide; nothing else to do than wait, since the next prop shop was in the far, far Orlais. Sighing, Dorian turned away from the mirror and resigned himself to the life of reclusion and solitude until at least his moustache grew back.

“Hey, Dorky!”

Dorian blanched and turned back slowly.

Sera was dangling upside-down from his bedroom window, a jar of something buzzing and angry in one hand, and a battle smear of strawberry jam on her chin. He could see her inverted wide grin falter at the shock of his face, leaving just a black, incomprehensive silence… and then the grin returned, even wider.

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

The upside of being a scion of a noble house was the necessary skill to fake, and – even though he refused to apply it more generally – Dorian was a very skilled student. He summoned a lazy smile onto his face. “Ah, Sera. You’re the first to enjoy my transformation. I’ve been needing a change for months.”

Sera pushed the window in and slipped into the room glibly, cackling like a madwoman. Her face looked rather as if it was going to burst at the seams. “Thhhh, Dorky! Didn’t know you were a gambler!”

“Appearances are no gambling matter, my dear stone monkey.”

“Bull _sheeeet_. It’s Varric, innit? Must’ve been.” Sera jumped closer and tugged at the combed over bangs, prompting a very indignant expression from Dorian, and howled with laughter at the sight. “You’re bald! Ehehehehe, you’re actually bald! The greatest day of my life, this!”

“Glad to be of service,” said Dorian acidly, with the most impressive deadpan he could muster.

“And your ‘stache! D’you do it for Lavellan? Elfy feeling like he wanted to smooch someone all different? Ehehehehe!”

 _Oh, kaffas._ Dorian considered the consequences of _kissing_ with no moustache and his mood soured even further. Fenriel was not going to like this.

And, judging by the giddy noises Sera was making – _Maker, she’s quite literally seconds away from rolling on the floor, jar of bees and all –_ there was a very high probability that the entire Inquisition would find out about his new look within the next hours. He needed to play this very, very carefully.

“Alright, you got me,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “I did, in fact, lose a bet. But I would be blind if I missed the greatest pranking opportunity this present situation offers.”

Sera’s grin became more toothy. “Listening, Sparklefingers.”

“No-one else in the entire Inquisition knows about my… ah… makeover,” said Dorian slowly, hoping to heavens he was making himself clear enough. “It would be a shame if someone were to spoil their surprise. Especially if their reaction faces turn out to be as delightful as yours.”

Sera giggled. “Knew I liked you for a reason. Alrighty then, but I get to see!”

 _O deity of embarrassed men, whatever is your name and offering of choice, I shall deliver it to you in thanks for your small mercies._ This could actually turn out for his benefit. “There’s actually a reason behind it, you see,” Dorian said conversationally, and Sera’s ear twitched curiously. “I have been given a dare that I cannot disguise myself for the next fortnight. If I can convince people that I am, in fact, not a Tevinter, but rather an Antivan born and bred…”

Sera burst out into peals of laughter again, spreading the strawberry jam across her face and making herself look fairly murderous in the process. Dorian tactfully decided not to comment on that. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Dorky. I’m loving it!”

Dorian perked up slightly at the perspective of having gained an unexpected ally. There was still a risk that Sera would _over_ do it, but now that the entire business was a pranking matter, he was fairly certain that she would not pass up the opportunity. He splayed his arms wide, showing off his new visage. “Perhaps I should tone down the all-new brilliance of my looks. Evidently, even you were overwhelmed.”

 “I was oversomething. Definitely.” Sera giggled to herself again. In the privacy of his own mind, Dorian congratulated himself on crossing yet another frontier of outrageousness. “Sooo… the plan is, make everybody think they’re crazy, yes? For thinking you’re Tevinter?”

“Outstanding, dear Sera. I believe this is scientifically called _messing with people._ ” Suddenly, the prospects for the next two weeks did not look so terribly glum.

“And those who won’t believe get a face full of bees!”

Dorian blinked. “Wait. No. Why on _earth-_ ”

“I got a massive bee shipment to get rid of before Elfy comes back. Bees or I’m out.” Sera shook the jar in her hand. It buzzed furiously.

Dorian considered his options for a moment, and then nodded philosophically. Some fights were not worth to be having, especially on a bad hair day.

“I am sure we can incorporate bees in the plan somehow,” he said solemnly, and Sera’s eyes twinkled.

“Righty. Now listen, Sparklepants, this is how we’re gonna go about this whole Antivan business…”

 

-/-

 

Cullen’s high-pitched scream was heard across the entire battlements. Dorian took only half the credit – his looks might have been a major factor, but the dripping red goo on his face and fingers certainly helped. Poor Commander must have been too absent-minded to contemplate the qualities of strawberry jam. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dorian has an Idea, and Josie has not signed up for this shit.


	3. In which Josephine is acquainted with the trials and tribulations of phonetics

Dorian had to give it to Josephine: her reserves of patience were boundless. She had evidently mastered the art of dealing with rowdy noblemen a long time ago. It was then just a form of practice, or indeed a sophisticated sport, to try to get on her nerves as much as possible as she taught him the intricacies of the Antivan accent. Learning was never Dorian’s problem; on the contrary, it was the boredom of the unoccupied part of his brain that was tricky. That was why he much rather preferred being tutored by books than people. They presented way less delightful distractions.

“ _Ma_ _ñ_ _ana_ ,” said Josephine with an exhausted expression.

“ _Manyana,_ ” repeated Dorian. “The nasality of that yod troubles me, Lady Montilyet. Why does it spread to the unsuspecting ah? It rather seems like an imposing thing to do. Surely a civilised elocutor would stop such a barbaric invasion on an unsuspecting rounded vowel. Ah. Aaaaah. _Manyana_.”

“You can’t just decide to overwrite the rules of phonation you don’t like, Dorian. _Ma_ _ñ_ _ana. Ma-_ _ñ_ _a-na._ ”

“Ah, but Josie – ought we not approach those kinds of patterns creatively and thoughtfully, with the kind of impassioned engagement we apply to any other learnéd art? I refuse to blindly follow regulations with no rationale. _Manyana._ ”

Josephine closed her eyes for a second, her eyelid twitching slightly. “Very well, Dorian. For tomorrow’s session, I shall send for the book on Antivan historical pronunciation, lest your thirst for knowledge goes unquenched. For the moment, let us leave the yod be… shall we try the th now?”

“I remain your humble student, Josie. _Yearning_ for the knowledge you offer.”

Josephine’s face was very carefully schooled back into patient expression. Oh, she was good. Dorian was having the time of his life.

“The rule is that if cee or zed is followed by a vowel different from ah or oh, a native Antivan speaker will pronounce it as a th,” said Josephine, carefully enunciating each singular sound. Dorian was diligently taking notes. “Let us try the word _process_ as an example. _El processo._ Do you hear the fricative sound as the eh follows the cee? _Pro-_ the _-sso._ ”

“How delightfully clear. However, if you don’t mind me asking…”

Josephine’s expression twitched. “Could you just repeat the word, Dorian? _El processo._ ”

“In a little moment. If you could just explain, Josie… why would you _th_ only after the ah and the oh? Would it not be more consistent to decide whether an es or a th is your consonant of choice, and then, in that spirit of integrity, produce a steady and reliable variety? I see no moral imperative in wavering stances such as those. In fact, they strike me as somehow… untrustworthy.”

“ _El processo,_ Dorian.” Josie’s face was cracking slowly. “If you will.”

“I am considering taking a stance on the subject. What would you say, Josephine? Would that not be a show of integrity that displays more Antivan virtue than just blind adherence to the erratic rules of language? _El prothetho?_ ”

Josephine’s expression broke. She hid her face in palms, shaking in what Dorian recognised as fits of very repressed desperation. A wide grin blossomed on his face as he opened his mouth –

The door opened. Leliana walked in, freezing him in his tracks, and dropped a scroll onto Josephine’s desk.

“ _El processo,_ ” she enunciated in a perfect Antivan accent, looking straight at Dorian. He swallowed nervously.

“ _El processo,_ ” he repeated.

Leliana smiled sweetly. “Very good.”

 

-/-

 

Dorian reclined in his library chair, sighing deeply as he closed the book on his lap. Things had gotten significantly less fun from the point of Leliana’s intervention; daring as he was, Dorian was still not quite berserk enough to continue his charade once Lady Nightingale declared it over. He was known as the sharpest mind of the Inquisition for a _reason._  

From that point on, then, it had been just the intricacies of the accent and word. His theatrical flare came in handy, no doubt, but parroting words was still not quite his discipline of choice; and it was unpleasant enough to find himself unable to reproduce some of the Antivan language’s more annoying sounds. Dorian suspected Josephine had exacted some of her own revenge by having him repeat silly sentences over and over again. All in all, it was a rather undignifying exercise in imitation, and he rejoiced at getting it over and done with for the day. The splinters of Antivan phrases still rattled in his brain unpleasantly, interfering with his evening reading session. Apparently, there was no rest to be had in the embrace of his beloved books; and, annoyingly, the other venue of entertainment was gone with Lavellan.   

He needed a break.

And, he thought with a grin that would impress even Varric, he knew just where to get it. Sera had offered him an important inspiration. What was the point of this entire charade if he wasn’t going to pester other people about it?

 

-/-

 

“Welcome, my dearrrr Blackwallllll!” sang Dorian, waltzing into the stables. The Warden raised his head, eyeing him suspiciously – no doubt noticing the missing moustache.

“Why do you sound like that?”

“Whatever do you mean? This is my normal, healthy Antivan _voz_.”

“You’re not-”

“-the only thing I’ve got left from my long-lost _patria,_ whom I left many years ago in my quest for knowledge. Oh, woe is me! The value of _mi casa_ has only grown in my heart _after_ I’d placed the sea between her and I!” Dorian dramatically pulled back the hood, revealing the atrocity of his haircut. Blackwell’s eyes widened.

“Honestly, Dorian, what in the Void-”

Dorian inched closer and put a manicured finger on the Warden’s bushy moustache – there had to be lips _somewhere_ in there – effectively silencing him. Blackwall breathed heavily through his nose, a rising panic in his face.

“Shut up,” whispered Dorian keenly, bringing his face closer to the other man’s haunted expression. “There is a cold-blooded murderer somewhere in the castle who targets innocent _where-I’m-from_ s.  As far as you’re concerned, I’ve always been Antivan, _entiendes_?”

Blackwall blinked, standing very still. “I, uh…”

“ _Get it?_ ” clarified Dorian, not moving away out of pure hilarity. The Warden tried to nod without moving, failed, and decided to use his words instead. “Uh, yes. Sure. Of course.”

Dorian grinned. Then he leaned in, placing a gentle peck on Blackwall’s forehead, and dashed off before the Warden could get his hammer to permanently mutilate him. “I knew you’d see the need for this! _Gracias_ , darling!”

Screams followed him as he ran back to the rotunda, giggling to himself. Anyone other than Blackwall and he could worry about his Antivan integrity… but the Warden was too much of a softie to blow his cover just out of petty revenge. And Dorian was definitely not above taking full advantage of it.

Feeling somewhat heartened, he considered his options. There was still much to do; Josephine was adamant he come back tomorrow, in order to learn the correct gestures and mannerisms of an Antivan nobleman. And there was, of course, the dress issue; the tailor was to measure him tomorrow to appropriate the clothing of the ambassador. He did _not_ look forward to it. If the Antivan fashion was in any way, shape, or form resembling of what he now bore on his poor, poor head, then his newfound living nightmare was about to enter a brand new circle of hell. Whatever happened, he resolved, he would draw the line at glittery shirts. 

He took a look towards the tavern, the bright lights deceitfully cheery in the falling twilight, and his expression soured. No doubt Hawke and her Little Wolf were already in there, enjoying the merriments of socialising that were now denied to him; Varric was probably cheering them on, the traitor.

 _This_ was a different matter entirely. Dorian realised that he hadn’t really thought about the Little Wolf as Varric’s _friend;_ it was still difficult to imagine the former gladiator, a sullen, beastly presence at Minrathous’ more exclusive parties, as someone rooted in the decisively manumitted, barbaric South. Those two just simply did not go together. The thing was, he thought, that for all the gossip surrounding the Champion of Kirkwall’s inner circle, and all the political upheaval that they seemed to have been at the centre of, he knew relatively little of Hawke’s companion. Compared to Josie, who appeared to know off the cuff _exactly_ who the Little Wolf was and what he was like, he was decidedly more in the dark.

Changing that would be an advantage in his situation, he concluded.

Barring the direct sources of Hawke and Varric, the traitors they were, there was a very simple way of remedying his lack of knowledge. However, that would require going through a significant amount of sensationalist writing; and after a long day, this was the _last_ thing he was willing to engage himself in. Thankfully, there was someone who he could _bet_ would be eager to fill him in… 

Well, it seemed that his plans for the morning were set.

-/-

 

“Maker’s mercy, Dorian, what’s happened to you?!”

Dorian blinked at Cassandra unfavourably. It was raining again. Of course it would, blighted South it was. He had hoped that the moisture in the air would provide some much-needed springiness to his mercilessly straightened curls. Instead, the rain had gone for a much more direct approach: it made his hair _wet_. In hindsight, it was something he might have anticipated.

His sulking almost prevented him from enjoying Cassandra’s scandalised face. Almost.

“I am fearing for my life,” he announced in a defeated voice. “Fleeing a madman bent on assassinating not only myself, but my entire kin. In my despair, Lady Seeker, I seek your help and expertise.”

Cassandra’s face crinkled, her eyes still firmly fixed on his hair. “Have your… ugh… fashion choices gone awry?”

“I am fleeing _persecution,_ Cassandra!” Dorian exclaimed indignantly. “And I assure you, this visual equivalent of retching has not been my willing choice. May it be testament to the depths of desperation I’m in.”

Cassandra sighed deeply. “This had better be serious, Dorian. You’re interrupting my morning routine.”

“I was rather hoping I could whisk you away for breakfast?” he suggested, and before Cassandra could shut him down immediately, he added, “It’s the matter of the _Tale of the Champion._ ”

The warrior’s expression’s changed from dismissive to distinctly attentive. Dorian congratulated himself for a bullseye. “What of it?”

“I know you for an avid reader of the tome, my dear Lady Seeker. And since I myself cannot quite stomach it, I was wondering if we could have a conversation about some… ah… aspects of it. If that seems like a pleasant way to start the day, of course?”

It was quite entertaining to watch Cassandra’s face; wariness fought an overeager will to share, and was losing sorely. Very fitting, he supposed, that even the emotions of the stern Seeker were warrior-like, and her introspection a battlefield.

Still, he would have been disappointed if her Seeker instincts did not bar her from acting out of passion. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, shaking off the confusion. “What do you want, Dorian?”

Well, wouldn’t you know it: the Seeker of Truth was seeking the truth. Thankfully, that could be a powerful tool as well.

“Fenris is trying to kill me,” he said solemnly, and Cassandra’s eyes widened. And – _Maker dammit –_ a faint blush, not unlike Josephine’s, rose up her cheeks. “I need you to tell me everything you know about him.”

Cassandra exhaled slowly, seemingly a little dazed. It was, frankly, a stunning view. “Ah… Tevinter. It does make sense.” She stared at him for a short moment, which Dorian used to curse the quadruple-damned appeal of homicidally-minded dramatic heroes, and then shook off the stupor and nodded decisively. “Come, Dorian. Let us discuss this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: in which the reader goes ''goddammit Dorian, took you long enough to notice''.
> 
> Also, _**prothetho**_.


	4. In which a nerve is touched

 Well.

He had not been expecting that.

In a way, he’d struck jackpot. Cassandra’s knowledge about the affairs of the Champion seemed much deeper than anything he’d seen in the _Tale of the Champion,_ brisk as his thumbing of the book was. It made sense, too, that Varric’s fierce protectiveness of Hawke would omit many fragments of the story in his book; Cassandra’s version from his interrogation was undoubtedly limited for the same reason, but it was in many ways a fuller, more realistic account of what had seemed to him just a general romantic drama. Instead of the sensationalised, highly dramatic plot of the _Tale,_ it told a simpler, more cutting story of one extraordinary woman in a difficult, politically divided city.

It also made him profoundly uncomfortable.

He’d known the basics. _Everyone_ knew the basics. Hawke was a Blight refugee turned Champion, an unexpected prodigy at everything from politics to all kinds of crazy magic, and she had been brought into the City of Chains on dragon’s wings to bring down the Arishok. A lyrium warrior on the run took his refuge there, and fell in love with her; the rest, as the tavern in Skyhold could attest, was history. This much he felt comfortable finding out.

Except this was not all. As Cassandra spoke, her voice rising and falling in the rhythm of the story, Dorian could almost see the still images floating before his eyes like the spectres of the Fade: not a Champion, but a penniless refugee, arriving in a city that was sick of her kind. Not a proud lyrium warrior, the legendary hero of the _Tale,_ but something far more unsettling in its familiarity: a sullen slave, paranoid and anxiety-ridden, illiterate and ruthless. _My_ _Little Wolf,_ Dorian remembered Danarius saying. _The greatest prize of all._

Fenris’ eyes in the tavern at the sound of Tevinter accent.

Not a romantic hero, but a runaway _thing,_ a piece of possession. Not a tumultuous affair, but the exhausting, laborious climb towards trust and security, toward personhood. Not a sensationalist drama to ratchet up the tension; but two people, loving, but still helpless not to hurt each other. 

Not a passionate love story, but a tale of breaking free.

Something prickled at Dorian’s eyes. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked Cassandra about this. This story was… not intended for him.

But there were other things. Other, even more uncomfortable things, cutting too closely into Dorian’s own memories of his adolescence. He had still been young, barely even an apprentice, but still old enough to know: a fuss in Minrathous as Danarius held his games, an uproar about the little slave who won them. An absolute _explosion_ of gossip, Danarius’ own position in the Magisterium skyrocketing, as that same young slave turned up to assume what was to be his regular spot at his master’s side; the lyrium in his skin, bound to blood so closely, singing in a way that seemed just too perfect for a living thing. Dorian remembered Alexius’ awe. His own awe. _This,_ Alexius would say, _is the triumph of magical development._

A triumph.

A _triumph_ of magical development.

The price of the little slave going through the roof. Danarius, absolutely insufferable, always in the company of his Little Wolf, his harpy of an apprentice becoming increasingly harder to tolerate. A loud scandal when a laetus broke in to Danarius’ mansion, trying to steal the manuscripts describing the Little Wolf’s transformation, in an obvious attempt to rise to power by repeating the breakthrough; a bloody execution of said laetus. Even more gloating from Hadriana.

The fixture of the white-haired Seheron slave at Danarius’ side, an object to be admired.

Dorian felt slightly nauseous. His immediate instinct was to _stop thinking about it, stop wallowing in memories you cannot change,_ a carefully cultivated reaction that had become second nature since he’d left Tevinter. But this was different. This was…

He forced himself to remember, even as Cassandra’s voice was filling in the blanks he had either not known, or not _cared about_ during his adolescent days.

Blood magic. Torture. Excruciating pain. Amnesia. Life given up for the lyrium.

A slave. A thing. A prized possession. A triumph.

_Little Wolf._

“What’s his real name?” Dorian asked in a voice that sounded throttled even to his own ears. Cassandra eyed him up for a moment.

“Leto,” she said softly. “But I am told he does not go by that name anymore. It is, as far as I understand it, just Fenris.”

Dorian nodded stiffly. _Just Fenris it is._ He suddenly wished Lavellan was there, just to talk this over; but he rejected that thought after a moment of consideration. There was no point in talking to the Inquisitor about slavery. They touched on the topic once, and the shouting match that followed had yet to be equalled by any other spat; and the longer Dorian was in the south, the more he understood why. It was because of the stories like that of the Dalish; like that of Fenris.

He wished Felix was there. He’d understand.

“Care to share your thoughts, Dorian?” prompted Cassandra, her voice reaching him in the depths of his reverie. Dorian blinked, shutting off the uneasy, conflicted feelings, sending them to the back of his mind where they belonged.

“Excellent storytelling skills, my dear Lady Seeker. I was simply so enthralled by the story I lost my focus on the present. I’m imagining you could give the dwarf a run for his money, now.”

Cassandra flushed slightly, visibly pleased with herself. Then her smile faded into something more thoughtful.

“I... must confess I don’t feel completely at ease with Fenris around,” she shared in an earnest voice, much to Dorian’s surprise. “I’m feeling as if I had seen too much of his life, and things he himself would not share. And though it may not be a secret… I still find myself rather hesitant in sharing that story, understanding the depth and pain of it.”

Dorian shook his head helplessly. “Then why did you tell all this to me?” He tried very hard not to make it sound accusatory, but some of it seeped into his tone anyway; Cassandra did not seem offended.

Instead, she looked him straight in the eye.

“You needed to understand,” she said simply. Dorian shivered as the implications of that hit him.

“Cassandra-”

“I know of culture shock,” she said, cutting him off. “Nevarran life is rather different from what I find here. A Tevinter’s transition must be harder still.”

Dorian just stared at her.

“You’re… you are obviously _trying_ to be a good man, Dorian, and the Inquisitor has put a great amount of trust in you. I find that Varric’s tales often make the right choice clearer in my head. I would be glad if I could offer the same.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then closed them again. Maker be damned, but he had underestimated the Seeker very, very sorely.

He found his voice after a moment. “I thank you, Lady Seeker. This had been… certainly enlightening.”

“Good! I am glad. Now I would need to get back to my training, if you don’t mind.” Cassandra stood up and gave him a friendly, if a tad awkward, pat on the shoulder, then walked to the door. Her shield clattered against her armour quietly.

She turned back at the door. “And if you ever tell the dwarf I said anything nice about his stories, I will make your life extraordinarily difficult. This is _not_ a challenge.”

Dorian giggled. Some things never changed.

He, on the other hand…

 

-/-

 

He found it increasingly difficult to focus as Josephine was going over the catalogues of Antivan fashion. Instead of flipping pages, he was still going over the memories in his head, the casual snippets of conversation that seemed infinitely more sinister now, having the terrible benefit of hindsight.

 _A blood ritual! How barbaric. Danarius must have cannibalised the ancient texts. There is no way they could have been so blunt in the original formula._ Alexius had been in a good mood that day, and so he’d gossiped away as Dorian had been practicing the glyphs.

He remembered his own voice. _Well, if only he shared his little prize with us, we could learn so much more. Especially as_ we _wouldn’t even have to cut him open!_

Alexius had laughed, then. They had fancied themselves the civilised face of Tevinter magic.

“Dorian?” Josephine prodded for the second time, and his gaze finally gravitated toward her. “You seem unusually placated today. I cannot help but feel unsettled at the silence.”

“What can I say, my dear Lady Ambassador,” Dorian said, flashing a charming smile. “If I am absent-minded today, you can blame it on your language classes. I was simply too enthralled by the Antivan pronunciation patterns to find in it me to fall asleep. Too much excitement, you see.”

“Now that’s better.” Josephine nodded, halfway between amused and relieved. “So you don’t object to Madame de Fer’s involvement, I take it?”

“Hold on, Josie.” Dorian blinked. “Could we perhaps rewind that conversation a bit? When did _Vivienne_ came into view here?”

Josephine cast him a very effective long-suffering look. It _almost_ succeeded in getting through. “I have three minor diplomatic crises at hand and one _very_ unsettling room service incident to deal with today, Dorian. I would never deny you a helping hand, but I would appreciate it very much if you could value my time too.”

“Well, let us not waste any more of it on half-hearted scolding, shall we?” said Dorian, a lazy smirk fixed back on his face. Josephine hid an impressive eyeroll behind her pad. “What are we expecting from the fearless Madame?”

“The clothes are not suitable,” said Josephine, crinkling her noise. “We have, I think, uncovered the truth as to why the Antivan ambassador left them behind as he departed. Suffice to say, they offer… a rather distasteful evidence of debauchery. I’m glad for the blackmail material, but…”

“You don’t yet despise me enough to make me wear them. I am flattered, Josie.” Dorian flashed a charming grin, and Josephine hid behind the pad again; this time, he was sure, with a smile. “Your kindness is legendary, o Ambassador, especially faced with trials and tribulations. One could suggest it rather invites abuse.” _Prothetho._

Josie lowered the pad. Yes, she was smiling. But there was a twinkle in her eye that did not bode well. Maybe messing with the docile ambassador had not been his wisest decision.

“Oh, sweet Lord Pavus,” said Josephine, her grin entirely too disconcerting. “I would not call your transfer to Vivienne a display of _kindness._ ”

Dorian’s jaw went slack. “Wait. You are appointing _Vivienne_ to oversee my clothing change? Josie. _Do not._ ”

“I will most certainly _do._ You wouldn’t perhaps be surprised to learn that Vivienne has her own suppliers of fabric and jewellery, not to mention a private seamstress in Skyhold. Coupled with her diplomatic acumen and knowledge, it is only right that I should delegate this sensitive matter into her hands.”

This was starting to feel like one of those games of Wicked Grace. “You are not entrusting my wardrobe to a woman whose choice of casual headgear is _horns_.”

“Your penchant for exaggeration has been noted,” said Josephine sweetly. “I have the utmost confidence in Madame de Fer’s style.”

“Her style is _Orlesian,_ ” tried Dorian as the matter of last resort. “And her choices will be Orlesian. Surely you would offer a greater degree of authenticity?”

“Vivienne’s worldly tastes are widely known and respected. You will be in good hands, Dorian.” Josie smiled at him, the innocence of the smile utterly sincere and welcoming, and Dorian conceded his defeat.

“Well played, Lady Ambassador.” The ordeal with Vivienne was gearing up to be excruciating, but at least it would offer a distraction. A pleasant one, too, if he can manage to scandalise the shrill mage with some well-placed comments about Tevinter.

Then again… dredging up old memories would perhaps not be the safest choice of sourcing his barbs, now. Now of all times.

 _Have you heard? Danarius lost his pet._ Peals of laughter from Alexius. _What is he going to masturbate to, now, with his greatest proof of power gone?_

His stomach turned at the memory. 

The gloating victory, carefully tucked away in Josephine’s eyes, evaporated very quickly. Dorian only realised it had been there once it’d disappeared. “Are you alright, Dorian? You do not seem well.”

He cleared his throat. “How kind of you, Josie. You do harbour some positive feelings towards my humble person after all. Do be careful not to fall madly in love with me, the Inquisitor is known to be rather possessive.”

Josephine’s cheeks pinked. “Your outrageousness really does know no bounds.”

“Oh, the flattery. And no denial, too.”

“Dorian!” Josephine scoffed, the pad going back up to hide the blush. “If you can believe that, I am genuinely concerned for you wellbeing today. But if this is your answer to any sincere worry…”

The smile faltered slightly on his lips. He fixed it there, and curved his eyebrows in what he hoped was a sincere enough _I-am-touched_ expression. “My apologies, o sweet Ambassador. I do appreciate it. There’s no cause for worry, though, I am perfectly fine.”  He let the eyebrows drop. “Well, chased by a bloodthirsty gladiator with flesh-phasing powers and forced into humiliation and hiding, but otherwise fine.”

Josephine eyed him up. “Well, Vivienne will take this further. You can let me know once your clothing is fixed.”

Dorian stood up and gave a graceful bow. “I will follow your advice, then. When shall the Iron Lady expect me?”

Josie smirked. In retrospect, Dorian thought, he really should have seen this one coming.

“ _Manyana._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try to pinpoint the moment in which Dorian realises slavery might not be this morally relative thing he's always considered it. 
> 
> Next up: Vivienne's being Vivienne, and stuff does not end well.


	5. In which Dorian and Vivienne consider the issue of class inequality

_Little Wolf._

He couldn’t focus on the book. If that went on any further, his plans to get through the muscle reconstruction tomes would be utterly ruined. He had a very limited amount of time before Lavellan came back and all hell broke loose again; how typical that trouble would find him in that exact point in time.

_A slave._

Danarius had kept the secret of the blood ritual very closely. The shipments of lyrium to his house could suggest the scale of his endeavour, but that had been just that: raw material. Expensive, volatile raw material. A thousandfold more expensive than the slave it would be poured into. It had seemed ridiculous, then; Danarius was hardly the brightest mind of Minrathous, and he’d sunk a large portion of his fortune into the lyrium. His father had scoffed at how silly it would be to have it all sink into one half-starved little elven body. _Always diversify your portfolio, Dorian,_ he’d say. _This is the exact case of too big of a gamble._

It’d seemed almost an insult, then, when the experiment had actually worked. Father had been annoyed that such a laughable gamble would actually pay off; Alexius had been personally insulted that Danarius’ heavy-handed approach would yield more fruit that the subtle complexities of time magic. For weeks on end, it would be a subject of endless scoffing, jokes, and derision; then they actually saw the elf, even more slender now as the eerie blue-white contours made him look barely even a skeleton, just a sketch of a creature. He was paraded around the Magisterium, with Danarius making sure every mage worth his salt could feel the intoxicating blend of lyrium and blood, the song of living magic; Dorian could still remember the shiver it had given him.

Then there would be jealousy. Lots and lots of jealousy. And, despite all their contempt for Danarius, awe.

_Living magic._

Those eyes. Those cold, unkind eyes, boring right into him in the tavern. He had trouble connecting them back to the roughly-contoured little body paraded across the halls of the Magisterium.

His stomach clenched unpleasantly, and Dorian cursed out loud. It was late, and he needed to get through that chapter or else his plans of churning through the entire tome were done for. _Kaffas,_ he needed to focus. _Focus. Focus, you laughable idiot. This is not important._

Lavellan’s face. _Did you have slaves?_

Explanations, justifications, arguments, reasoning. _Excuses._ A shouting match. Indignant, tightly wound face of the Inquisitor, his Dalish tattoos – _vallaslin, Dorian, they’re called vallaslin –_ crumpling on his forehead as his eyebrows had narrowed angrily. _When you look at me, do you just see a thing?_

_Amatus, no. Amatus, I’m sorry. Amatus, I don’t know. Amatus, I-_

_I-_

He had not said that. He would _never_ say that, because that would amount to a humiliating defeat. Instead, the argument escalated, because oh, Dorian could argue very well, and usually, he even derived some perverse pleasure from delivering witty punchlines and round, eloquent sentences destroying the opponent’s stance, and winning, winning, winning. And he’d won, then, he’d backed Lavellan into a rhetorical corner knowing full well the extent of oratory training he’d had over the elven savage, pretty round words leading him to a straight victory. _Slavery is a necessary evil. It is no worse that the poverty of the south._

He’d needed Lavellan to understand that his pretty round words meant close to nothing. He had not argued because he’d actually believed his argument; he’d argued because he hadn’t wanted to lose.

_Amatus-_

That was the first night they’d spent apart in a long while.

 _For fuck’s sake._ Why was he thinking back to the one argument he did _not_ want to remember? He closed the book on his lap and started pacing the room restlessly; his steps echoed in the dark void of the tower, accompanied only by the distant cawing of Leliana’s crows above. In the darkness below, a faint light was flickering at the ground level. Solas’ enchantments worked on the paintings even when the elf himself was not there.

 _Felix, dear. If you’re in the Fade somewhere, get your stunning ass over here. I could really appreciate some company right about now._ Dorian called into the Void, but it did not answer back; the story of his life, really. 

There was no way he was going to be productive in a mood like this.

He tried to remember the slaves at his family home in Qarinus. The only thing he could recall was vague shadows; a nebulous presence of many heads and legs handing him food, taking his laundry, fetching stuff from upstairs. But maybe that was just because he’d been so young when he’d lived there. Minrathous would be different. It _had_ been different.

There was… Legis, Dorian recalled, an odd triumph in remembering a slave’s name. Alexius’ property. He’d be a part of the laboratory, going along with the furniture; he could read, too, so he’d be capable of finding books they’d needed in Alexius’ vast library. Come to think of it, he realised with an strange feeling of seeing an old memory anew, the library was always filled with slaves sorting, cleaning, and rearranging the collection. They _had_ been there. He just hadn’t paid attention.

_When you look at me, do you just see a thing?_

Now this – this was preposterous. Lavellan was not a thing. Lavellan had a keen, curious mind, a ragged Southern charm, a sweet accent over his every ‘r’, and a presence that commanded if not respect, then at least attention. Lavellan was strong, and brave, and bold, and kind. Lavellan was the _Inquisitor_. The shape of his ears had nothing to do with it.

And yet – and yet –

_Little Wolf. The greatest prize of all._

Dorian cursed again, and once more for good measure. This was the exact sort of spiralling, escalating nonsense he did not need in his head. In less than a fortnight, Hawke and Fenris were going to be away, and Lavellan would be back; and then they’d have a very satisfying night in which all of Dorian’s frustrations will be conveniently relieved at once, and after that, his mind was going to return to its steady, satisfyingly stable course. In the meantime, he would make do.

No-one would ever say Dorian Pavus was not good at finding _distractions._

-/-

 

After three hours of tossing, turning, and more cussing into the pillow, Dorian concluded that he couldn’t sleep.

Maker dammit.

 

-/-

 

Vivienne was not his favourite conversationalist on the best of days. When he was sleep-deprived and grouchy, however, any direct contact with her was nothing short of grating.

“Oh, dear, this simply will not do,” she tsked at the elven servant as he brought in several glittery samples. Dorian felt his eyes linger on the face of the elf; he was a quiet, unassuming presence Dorian wouldn’t have noticed a week before, with his olive skin suggesting a Dalish heritage, but his forehead damningly bare. Vivienne’s voice cut into his reverie, swift and decisive: “Bring in more white, dear. You really ought to wear more white, Lord Pavus, someone of your complexion is lost in those murky green leathers the Inquisitor has us wear.”

Dorian felt a headache coming. “Around Skyhold? I tend to avoid it, lest I get lost in the snow.”

Vivienne acknowledged his wit with a regal nod. “Still, I cannot help but wonder why the uniforms of the Inquisition are chosen in such poor colouring. You are lucky indeed to pose for an Antivan, Master Pavus. As flashy as their fashion tends to be, it is still an order of magnitude above any… _Dalish_ garments.”

The ears of the elven servant twitched. Vivienne did not seem to notice; and Dorian knew very well that on any other day, neither would he. But the only difference _that_ made was that his anger was now also against _himself._

“Well, that would make them at least _ten_ orders of magnitude above any Orlesian fashion, then,” he said, his words clipped enough to communicate the depth of offense the witticism was not quite covering. Vivienne’s eyes fixed on him, part surprise and part distaste.

“What a shame. And here I thought you knowledgeable enough in the intricacies of clothing choices.”

“Ah, Madame, I was not making any point about _clothing_. Pardon me, I thought we were comparing the fashions of casual prejudice!”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed to slits. The elven slave scurried away, rolls of white fabric in his hands.

“How awfully presumptuous, coming from a Tevinter.”

“But that’s where my expertise comes from, Madame. Distaste for lower classes is our main export. Now, yours… would not be out of place in the halls of Minrathous.”

Vivienne shuddered, as if slapped. She recovered immediately, a terrifying iron mask falling in place. “I will not be lectured on respect from a _magister._ ”

 _Magister!_ Dorian knew he was walking on very thin ice here, but _for fuck’s sake_ he was sleep-deprived and very angry at something in himself he didn’t even _understand,_ and the fact that he didn’t know how deep that frozen lake would be did not stop him from stomping. “Tell me, o Madame, does the Inquisitor know the contempt you hold for his people? Or do you just _happen_ to conveniently hide it from him, knowing that an angry puppet is a less malleable one? After all, no-one expects that savage to be the true leader of the Inquisition, now, do they?”

“You deplorable Tevinter _snake,_ ” hissed Vivienne. “Twisting your words and deeds, unaware that others may see them for poison they truly are. _Get out of my sight._ ”

“Ah, Madame.” Dorian cocked his head. “But weren’t we just conversing on the topic of Dalish fashion?” He stood up, gave a sweeping bow, and grinned maniacally, his head pounding with an unavoidable headache. “You are exceptionally good at your silly, frilly Orlesian Game, Madame, you have made but one little mistake.” He stretched the grin on his face until it became painful. “You have assumed we were alike, you and I. That it is okay to share your little judgments and laugh them off as charming, yes? How charming they are!” Dorian dropped the grin suddenly, his entire face still in a cold expression. “Not. At. All.”

They stared each other down for a long, tense moment.

“How interesting,” said Vivienne in a chilling voice. “Quite a tirade. One could be excused to find a note of defensiveness in it.”

“Your nose must be numbed enough to catch it,” replied Dorian, equally cold. “As for me, I am simply overwhelmed by the stench.”

With that, he turned back and gracefully walked out of the door, passing the elven servant on the way. _Oh, what the hell._

“What’s your name, lad?” he asked, false cheer in his voice. The elf stuttered.

“M-mallis, m-my lord-”

“Mallis! Delightful. Have a good day, Mallis. Apologies that your errands were in vain.”

Grinning, Dorian marched off, leaving the elf speechless at the door.

 

-/-

 

Oh, he was going to regret this.

He was going to regret it _very badly_ once Lavellan came back.

Dorian’s forehead was flat on the desk. The headache would not go away, and the awareness of having royally pissed off the most powerful Southern mage in Skyhold was not helping. _Splendid, Dorian. Now you’ve gone and made yourself_ two _powerful enemies wanting to tear your heart out._

He groaned softly against the cold wood. Those days had been supposed to be over when he came south.

Josephine was going to demand his _head._ Or, even more chillingly, Leliana would decide that his usefulness as an ally had been decisively overridden by his innate ability to spurn other allies, and one night the ravens from the rookery would fly down and claw out his eyes. _Regardless of the Inquisitor’s personal preference,_ she’d said. He did not want to call her bluff.

Lavellan. He was going to be furious, with the amount of cautious care he had been deploying around Vivienne. A powerful ally, an outstanding diplomatic envoy, and a grave figure with impeccable credentials lending the rag-tag band of Inquisition a more serious and respectable aura… The Inquisition needed her. Or, worse still, the Inquisition could not afford to make Madame de Fer an enemy.

Dorian raised his forehead a couple of inches, then let his head fall back down. It hit the desk with a soft thump. _Congratulations, Dorian. There was literally no worse option to have chosen._

The paradox was, it wasn’t even _about_ Vivienne. Oh, Dorian believed everything he had said just fine; the enchanter was a notorious snob and manipulator, and her contempt towards everything below a certain class was an open secret. The fact that she was harbouring prejudices against the Dalish was neither a surprise nor a rarity, and acceptable enough that Vivienne had been comfortable expressing it around Dorian – a Tevinter, yes, but still a good old nobleman. There were far more extreme shades of that prejudice, to the point where a minor derisive comment about culture and fashion should not even rattle anyone. Lavellan would surely not thank him for defending the Dalish honour over his _fashion choices._ And, loath as Dorian was to admit it, Vivienne was not a xenophobe; she was a passionate enough defender of the poor and downtrodden, even though she could crinkle her nose at their smell. Neither was she stupid enough to be radical in any position.

But the terribly uncomfortable truth of the matter was that he _had_ been defensive. The elven servant – and the way he’d only just _noticed_ the fact that it was always elves, even this far down south – had unsettled him more than he could understand. And the fact that _he_ had never questioned it, and that _he_ had never sought to understand, and that should Cassandra never have told him the story of Fenris and Hawke, he would have gone along with Vivienne’s sophisticated disdain. This was the way of the noble classes. This was the _norm._

He closed his eyes. _Little Wolf. The greatest prize of all. Do you just see a thing?_ Lavellan. Fenris. Mallis the seamstress servant.

_Slavery._

Living. Feeling. Beings. _Things._

Unquestioned. Accepted. Conventional.  N o r m a l .

Dorian wanted to scream.

He stood up and started pacing again, in an agitated, angry manner. He needed to sort his head out before Lavellan came back. There was no point in reopening that old argument just because he had become _confused,_ least of all because of a story of his would-be killer. And whatever the mess in his thoughts, Dorian was still very much intent on not getting murdered.

He heard the footsteps approaching him from the back. He fixed his eyes firmly on the bookshelves. “Let us just get it over with, Josephine. No, I have no convincing excuse. No, I will not apologise to the damned Enchanter. Now, dear, would you kindly go away? I have a _splitting_ headache.”

“Uh-oh.” The voice behind him was decidedly male. And dwarven. Dorian grimaced and turned to face Varric, the dwarf’s expression somewhere between amusement and pity.

“Afternoon, Sparkler. Bad hair day?”

“Unless you have a keg of whisky on your person, Varric, do not open your mouth at me.”

“Gotta say, your face looks a bit unfinished without that fancy squiggle on top of it. Kind of unsettling. It’s like seeing someone wear glasses out of a sudden, y’know? Different face.”

“Varric Eugene Tethras,” said Dorian gravely. “If you do not want the earth under your feet to suddenly crawl with corpses, do kindly shut up.”

“Impressive work with the Iron Harpy, there. That is as rattled as I have ever seen her. Care to share the secret with the rest of the class?”

Dorian groaned. “Headache. Bad. Silence. Needed. How simple must I make this for a Southerner to understand?”

Varric cocked his head. “No offence, Sparkler, but you always turn up the snotty when something’s bothering you. Want a drink?”

Dorian paused the sulking and considered the offer. It _was_ this sort of day. And with the crate of whisky still persistently gone from his hiding spot, there was very little on offer in terms of distractions. Which he badly needed. It was a patently terrible idea to just dwell inside his mind for the rest of the day.

“Wouldn’t you know it, you _do_ have a keg of whisky on your person. Do you hide it somewhere in your chest carpet?”

Varric flashed him a grin. “Only for personal uses. Nah, Sparkler, let’s go down to Herald’s. You look like you haven’t had social time for a couple days.”

“Hardly my fault!” Dorian snorted. “Since the tavern is now occupied by a killer machine thirsting for my blood. I’d rather stay right here and stew in my indignation than be _vivisected_ , thank you.”

“Fenris and Hawke have a meeting with the advisors,” said Varric casually. “What I’m saying is, you need a drink, and it’s all clear for the moment. Couple it with your Antivan charade just for good measure and you’re good to go.” 

 “A long meeting?” Dorian inquired distrustfully.

“The longest-ass kind. Strategy.”

Dorian let out a long-suffering sign. “Very well. It’s not as if this day could get any wo-”

He stopped himself short and very, very deliberately clamped his mouth shut. The fate did not need more tempting.

Varric’s shit-eating grin was grating his nerves as they went downstairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment when you're in the middle of an argument, and out of a sudden you realise that you're not really arguing with the other person as much as with yourself? That moment? Dorian knows.
> 
> Next up: Cole chimes in, or NOT. MUCH. FUN. AT ALL.


	6. In which Cole tries to help

It was reassuring to be back in the tavern. Dorian would never, ever admit it, but he had missed the raggedy, crude comforts of a Fereldan pub, with the background noise of chattering voices and clattering tankards, every once in a while silenced by Maryden’s songs, the late afternoon sunlight splitting the dust in the air. The south had evidently ruined him already.

_Slavery. It’s such a normal thing, you do not question it._

He winced, and was suddenly glad for the awful quality of the… _liquid_ in his tankard. It had been another of important life lessons he’d learned early: if you’re in a lousy mood, blame in on the terrible quality of your alcohol.

 _Father, did you hear?_ Felix had come in late that day. _Ultistis is selling his their slaves for blood sacrifices, they’re on the market today. Did we not need an archivist?_

Alexius had dismissed the thought. _We’ve got enough in the library, filius. I hardly want to fill that drunkard’s pockets with more money._

_But it’s such a waste! They’re well learned, he could get three times as much for them, he’s just-_

_A man’s addiction is his own business,_ he remembered his own voice chiming in. _But I can think of more fun ways to spend gold than to fund Ultistis’ liquor._

Such a silly episode, that. Altus Ultistis had died of white poppy overdose not three months after this, a cautionary tale that Dorian’s father had not omitted to point out in a preachy voice. Until now, Dorian had never once wondered what’d happened to the slaves.

Ultistis had been far too preoccupied with his own addictions to practice any blood magic; very likely that his slaves had been just tending to his mansions and libraries, cleaning the occasional vomit from the master. Until, one day, the debts had got too deep and they’d been sold one by one and drained for blood.  

How had he never thought about that before? Ah, yes. He’d been too preoccupied with his own persecutions. His father hadn’t approved of the kind of sex he liked.

The beer was _not_ helping.

Varric’s rambling tale had ended a while ago, Dorian realised, and the dwarf was now just looking at him intently. He scowled, taking another sip from the tankard. “Apologies, my friend. I was just composing an ode to this beer in my mind. What rhymes with _disaster?_ ”

“Master, blaster, taster, plaster, caster, past her,” recited Varric without a second thought. “Poetry is easy, Sparkler. You should try putting it in prose.”

“A curious argument. Most would argue it would be the other way around.”

“ _Most_ are tragicizing idiots thinking big words make them artists. Put something in plain speech, see if it still works. _Then_ make dramatic poetry out of it, be my guest.”

“I shall try, then. What do you make of the following: _This beer sucks balls._ ”

Varric laughed, his eyes crinkling sincerely. “Best poetry _I_ ’ve ever heard.”

“Varric?” asked Dorian, unexpectedly even for himself. “When you compose your stories, does the hero ever end up being the villain?”

The dwarf’s eyes fixed on him, his grin fading. “Happens. Something on your mind, Sparkler?”

“Even if not by outright villainy, but rather… an error of judgement so grand it seems to have spanned his entire life? A lack of empathy, or compassion? A profound misunderstanding about the nature of the world and people, breeding horrendous hurt not by the way of ill intent, but _an accident?_ A hurt _he might not even remember?_ ”

“…Maker’s flaming asscheeks.” Varric stared at him.

Dorian slumped on the table, hiding his face in palms. “Irrelevant. I’ll have another one of those atrocities. This time, you can top it up with rat poison to improve the taste.”

“Gnawing, gushing guilt, greed guides governance. The comfort of memories is denied to me, for now I understand. Like Felix understood.”

They both jumped. Cole stood next to the table, staring at Dorian intently. “Finding fault in freedom, a festering wound. Free, but what value does it have in a slum? When you look at me, do you just see a thing?”

Dorian flinched. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

Cole’s odd, disjointed face crinkled in confusion. “I want to help.”

“You can’t.”

“I lacked compassion,” announced Cole softly. “I failed to see their souls. That they had souls. Normal, common, but Felix knew. Felix cared. Felix could.”

Varric looked between them, an expression of supreme discomfort on his face. “Hey, uh, kid. Is Red back in Skyhold already? Thought you were told not to come back until next week.”

Cole smiled. “I made the raven forget.”

Dorian felt the panic rising in his throat. He couldn’t look Lavellan in the face. Not right now, not in this state of mind. “Take him away, Cole, please.”

“You do not want to see him, but you want nothing else,” said the spirit softly. “The creasing _vallaslin._ He made you think before Cassandra did.”

“Cole, I-”

“I didn’t see them. They suffered under me, and I didn’t even see them. Maker help me, I am my father.”

_No._

_No. No. No. No._

The wave of nausea rose up to his throat.

“Kid,” said Varric in a hard voice. “You can stop now.”

Cole’s face crumpled in an utter lack of understanding. “It’s so loud. The mind screams and sobs and seethes. Solitude strengthens sorrows, but he sends me away?”

“Hey, Fancypants!” Krem called from the door, and it took all the strength Dorian had ever amassed to look at him with a collected expression. “The Inquisitor’s coming. Figured you might want to know.”

_Not now._

He stood up. “Of course he wouldn’t ever ride back in without a fanfare, the showoff.” His voice _did not_ waver. He kept his head stiff and still, a Tevinter altus he was. The heir to House Pavus. An engineered perfection.

  _Not another word, Cole._ The spirit looked at him helplessly, a pained expression on his face under the hat, but he kept his mouth shut. Dorian walked out of the tavern; only one set of footsteps followed, but he did not doubt Cole would be watching too.

The timing was perfect. _It would be._ The Inquisitorial hart trotted into the courtyard with a familiar proud swagger, every inch the _revas_ it was named after. On his back, face beaming, red locks burning in the golden sunlight, rode the Herald of Andraste: chin tilted upwards to greet the colossal shape of Skyhold, the narrowness of its towers in the sharp angle of his ears. _A creature of pride._ Dorian would often wonder whether he had made a deal with the demon when he’d let himself be kissed.

Fenriel complained about being so far from the forests, sometimes. Oh, the magnificent fool; he did not understand. Wherever he went, the wilderness followed. He carried it proudly on his forehead, each branch of blood writing a timeless tree.

Despite the freezing numbness of his mind, Dorian’s heart sang.

Behind the Inquisitor, a small grey mare carried his unassuming _hahren,_ Solas looking as simple and meek as usual. Bull was walking from the other side, his steps easily matching those of the horses; putting him on an animal would make him _slower,_ he’d argued, and no-one had been daring enough to contradict him. Quite rightly so, too, if the view was anything to go by. The third horse, presumably Cole’s, was unsaddled and unmounted; nevertheless, it walked on in a very purposeful manner, seemingly more aware of what to do than the other animals. Knowing Cole, it probably did.

Cheers and greetings sounded around them; the Inquisitor remained suspiciously well-liked for a godsent leader, and Bull was a fixture of every barrack in Skyhold and beyond. Between the two of them and Dorian himself, they might have represented a significant percentage of Skyhold’s main crushes. Lavellan’s face was bright in reddening sunlight as he smiled and made small gestures of recognition at his people, but his gaze was searching; then it found Dorian, and the light of his eyes could put the brightest-burning spells to shame.

“ _Vhenan!_ ”

Dorian flinched. The nausea returned even stronger, coupled with a feeling of self-hatred he recognised all too well. Worry crossed the Inquisitor’s face, but before he had a chance to speak, a familiar voice rang through the air-

“Inquisitor! You’re earlier than we expected you!”

The three advisors were walking out of the main entrance, descending the wide stone staircase; Josephine first, slightly fussy with her mandatory pad, then Cullen with his feathery mane floating in the rhythm of his steps, then Leliana, calm and collected behind them, a hood slipped slightly lower than normal. Lavellan waved at them, spurring the hart to walk on.

Then, behind Leliana, walked Hawke and Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNNNN
> 
> But seriously, Cole, you should learn how to take hints.


	7. In which a choice is made

Dorian never fancied himself superstitious. Religious, perhaps, but not superstitious. He was a man of science, and considered himself above the platitudes of _my entire life flashed before my eyes, no, I’m serious._

He would know better now.

The whole Antivan charade had been unexpectedly pleasant to a point. Enjoyable, at times. Absurd, certainly. But now, staring into the deathly white shine of the lyrium warrior, Dorian remembered what made him start it in the first place.

 _Fear. Completely rational, well-substantiated fear for my life._ His throat constricted uncomfortably with stress, his stomach twisted into a hot ball of anxiety.

 Ah, but he was Antivan now. There’s no reason Fenris would pick him out from the crowd, yes? That was the whole point of the blighted haircut. Dorian followed the Inquisitor’s hart as the advisors headed down, Solas turning back to lead the horses to the stables. That in itself wasn’t strange – Solas was not particularly confrontational, and preferred to avoid large gatherings – but Dorian was suddenly struck by the realisation that he had never before seen Hawke and Solas in the same place.

Then again, it could be just him projecting his own nerves. There was no reason that Solas would choose to avoid the Champion of Kirkwall. Unless, that is, Hawke happened to harbour a vicious and actively murderous traumatic prejudice towards unassuming hedge mages, of all things…

Which led him back to square one. Dorian hung his head low, focusing on his shoes. There was no point to invite Fenris’ attention by excessive glaring.

Oh, but he could feel it now, knowing what he was looking for. Back in the tavern, the lyrium was overwhelming like a battle spell; but this, this aura… it was something more subtle, as docile and sweet as a sleeping tiger and as white as its teeth. Lyrium amplifying the song of blood and blood amplifying the song of lyrium; a beautiful, beautiful harmony. It had a razor-sharp edge, but the core of the aura was surprisingly delicate and gentle, the currents of shimmering lyrium wreathing around the natural energy within the veins.

Even though his eyes were firmly fixed down, Dorian was _staring._

And this brought him back, plunging him headfirst into the depths  of self-hatred briefly shielded by surprise and worry. He remembered that awe, that swirling energy of perfect balance: life and magic together, harmony embodied. Alexius’ jaw had gone slack. His father had looked completely off balance. There had never been anything like this, not for the cost of blood nor the lyrium, but for the sheer audacity of binding the two.

Danarius had not lacked audacity. _Behold, o men and women of the Magisterium! While some of us are scurrying in the shadows of our demise, helpless to alter it and reluctant to even try… others venture into the past to win back the glory of our ancestors! I give you back the strength of the Old Imperium, o magisters: behold the lyrium warrior, the first of its kind in three thousand years!_

Before, they had been all restraining casual snickers. Danarius could style himself the envoy of glorious past all he wanted; no-one else had fallen for that. Then… then they’d brought in the little slave.

Dorian felt dizzy, the Fade pressing on him insistently. The memory was almost too precise; he could remember the paleness of the grey Seheron skin, the sickly glow of those impossibly large, elven eyes, the hair that had obviously been shaven to bare skin and only then it’d been growing back, a death-white prickle of weak fuzz hiding nothing of the small naked skull underneath. And – _Cassandra was not lying –_ a grimace of pain as every reddened ridge of his skin had lit up with eerie glow. _Pain. Torture. Amnesia._

Dorian felt sick when he remembered his own awe at the living lyrium. _Maker help us all, we were torturing a child._

_And we enjoyed it._

Dorian couldn’t help raising his head to look at the lyrium warrior. Fenris’ expression was neutral, casually closed off, but he kept close to Hawke; the long, uneven bangs Dorian remembered from his later Minrathous days were almost obscuring his eyes, veiling the all-too-vivid shape of the naked skull from Dorian’s prying eyes. The scars were long healed, and the skin around them dark and healthy, accentuating the white tattoos of lyrium; and even though the elf was still small and lanky, it was all lean muscle now, not sickness and starvation. 

The two images blended together like two shapes of stained glass set one after another, the proof of unimaginable force of will.

… Lavellan was calling his name. Something about Adamant.

“Apologiesss, o Inquithitorr,” said Dorian, putting his most believable Antivan accent to the ultimate test. Lavellan’s eyes widened. _So sorry, love._ “I doñ’t bellieve I would be ‘nowledgeable enough to ‘ave an opiñion.”

Josie kept an absolutely solid poker face. Dorian knew she was most likely stewing in cold fury about the way he’d dealt with Vivienne, but he could at least make her proud through his vocal contortions. Lavellan, on the other hand, started laughing, equal parts amused and incredulous.

“A welcome prank, _vhenan?_ Am I seeing Zevran Arianai now?”

Dorian’s smirk ran out from him, and his tone dipped into a purr. “The _imprrrroved_ verrsyon, o Lorrd Inquithitorr.” 

“Dorian Pavus.”

He did not know that voice.

There was only one person in front of him whose voice he did not know.

Dorian blanched instantly. Lavellan’s worry crossed his face before a _flash_ made the world go _white –_

Shouts exploded in the courtyard. He sprung to cover behind the hart, a shield opening up in front of him with barely a though. He didn’t have his staff; he’d make do. He heard a familiar metallic sling; Cullen must have unsheathed his sword, or at least he could _pray_ it was Cullen.

Lavellan dismounted the hart and slammed his staff into the ground. It shook. His right hand bled emerald light. “ _Stop!_ ”

_Thus saith the Herald of Andraste._

And, just like that, everyone stilled.

The hart raced off, and Dorian turned back to take in the scene. Not that he had to, not really – the lyrium and elemental magic coursed through the air like tidal waves. There was something brilliantly white and twisting above them that could only be _lightning_ enclosed in ice, and Hawke and Fenris were locked in an embrace that could perhaps look loving – were it not for the fact that Hawke gripped her staff very, very hard, and Fenris’ lyrium was _livid._          

Bull stepped from behind the Inquisitor, dragging his axe behind. “Fog Fucker.”

“ _What?”_ breathed out the Inquisitor, his confused gaze coursing between the Champion and the warrior, the battle-ready advisors, Bull’s glittering eyes, the pathetic image of Dorian himself, and the bound lightning above them. “What the _Fen’Harel_ is going on?!”

“A little help here, maybe?!” called Hawke through gritted teeth. Varric hurried to her side, Bianca drawn either as a precaution or threat. The song of lyrium was blinding for a moment, the Fade reached out into the world, and –

Fenris phased through Hawke’s body and, lightning-quick, moved towards him. Hawke’s yelp was less pain and more fury as she lost her balance, and the shimmering bold encased in ice fell straight down towards him, and then – and then – _Dorian was knocked back as the wind from the explosion tossed him down the chipped stone of Skyhold like a rag doll –_

Lavellan yelled incomprehensibly. The Anchor flared, and a spherical shield flickered in the air, half-visible, green and quivering membrane, and the Inquisitor clamped it down the explosion like a bowl.

The roar of the lightning was muted.

As the shield slowly dissipated, a gigantic crater revealed itself in the middle of the courtyard, the ancient bones of Skyhold shattered to a rubble. Darkness gaped within it.

Dorian pushed himself to his feet. At his side, Lavellan was staring at the side of the crater, shell-shocked; Bull, all pretences of casualness gone from his massive frame, stood beside them and stared down the approaching lyrium warrior.

“Knew you would pop up again. You Seherons are more difficult to get rid of than roaches.”

“I have no quarrel with you this time, Hissrad,” said Fenris in a deep voice that sent shivers down Dorian’s spine. _These two know each other?_ “Step away from the Tevinter.”

“Fenris, _for fuck’s sake!_ ” Hawke must have fade-stepped across the crater, because she was suddenly at the elf’s side, grasping his lyrium-lit shoulders. “Look at this disaster! How many _times-_ ”

“This is Altus Dorian Pavus, of the House Pavus of Qarinus,” said Fenris in a chillingly calm voice. “Son of Halward Pavus of the Magisterium, and heir to the title. A slaver, a blood mage, and an abomination even amongst his own people. _He deserves to die._ ”

Hawke paled behind him, her fingers whitening as she tightened the hold. “You… know him?”

Dorian barely heard it over the pounding in his own ears. Fenris laughed, an off-sounding, grating, throttled sound. “ _Know him?!_ He and Hadriana studied together.”

An insistent heat made itself known from behind him, and Dorian could no longer ignore the fury of his lover’s aura behind him. The Inquisitor stepped forward. “Who do you think you are,” he enunciated in a regal, angry tone, “to decide who should live or die in _my_ Inquisition?!”

Fenris did not drop his gaze. “Someone with the right of blood.”

The two elves stared each other down. At the ends of his attention, Dorian hazily realised that a crowd was forming at the edges of the crater.

“You will _not_ ,” said Lavellan, fury dripping from every sound, “threaten Dorian again.”

Fenris bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “Such is the justice of the Inquisition? How quick are the Dalish to forgive.”

“Inquisitor, if what serah Fenris is implying is true, this is a sensitive matter,” said Josephine from the sidelines, her voice quivering slightly. “Not one to be discussed in public.”

Fenris shook his head. “No. There will be no more waiting. This magister’s blood is mine.”

“For heaven’s sake, I’m an altus!” Dorian’s voice surprised everybody, most of all himself.

Fenris sneered, making one more step towards him. Lavellan matched that. Hawke let go of Fenris’s shoulders and planted her staff on the ground.

A glimmering membrane, similar to what the Inquisitor had used to contain the lightning, stretched between them. Dorian shifted his gaze from Fenris to Hawke; her impossible blue eyes were dimmed.

“Is it true?” she asked, her usually friendly, open face completely empty. “You worked with Hadriana?”

“I hated that bitch.” Dorian could say that with absolute sincerity. “We _studied_ together in the Minrathous Circle, and I assure you, not by my choice. I have no dealings with her whatsoever, nor did I ever have.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Fenris almost too casually. “She is dead. And so is Danarius.”

 _Ah. So Danarius’ greatest triumph became his bitter end._ “No condolences needed. I was not fond of your former master.”

“ _Non ad me adhoc loqui, venalicius”,_ snarled Fenris. “I will not waste words on someone who would not grant me a voice. _Fasta vaas,_ Hawke, you killed slavers for me since we met! Why is this one different?!”

“Because he is the member of the Inquisition and subject to the law,” said Cullen. Dorian’s eyes darted to him. Of all people, he did not expect rescue to arrive from the ramrod-straight Commander. “And he can be tried accordingly if he is a suspect.” _Well, so much for that._ “I understand your ire, Fenris, but-”

“You understand nothing, Rutherford,” sounded a clipped reply. _Maker’s mercy, do all Southerners know each other?!_ “Have the Inquisitor judge his lover. Or have Orsino weed out maleficars. Justice is in the spilt blood and nowhere else.”

At the sound of the unfamiliar name, Cullen paled and stuttered. Hawke’s forehead creased. “Dorian… blood magic?”

A heartbeat passed. “Only ever with my own blood.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Dorian kept his head high, refusing to look either back at Lavellan, or up towards Josephine. If she had thought he wasn’t able to do any _more_ damage to the Inquisition’s reputation after his spat with Vivienne, she was evidently sorely mistaken.

But Dorian was done lying and hiding.

“I had slaves,” he announced loud and clear, stepping closer to Hawke’s barrier, looking Fenris straight in the eye. The hatred in the elf’s eyes was cold enough to burn. _Little Wolf. The greatest prize of all. A child tortured in front of all the Magisterium._ “I thought it was normal to have slaves. I did not notice them and didn’t know their names. They were _things_ to me.” A sharp intake of breath at Lavellan’s side, but Dorian’s mind was already far beyond the numbing cold to be chilled at it. “And when I was challenged on it, I refused to dwell on the subject. I couldn’t have found a different perspective from where I lived.”

Hawke’s spell was hanging between them, a strange organic weave of magic. Fenris’ eyes were fixed on his, filled with boundless hate.

“I was wrong.”

_Fenriel, amatus, love, if I place this bet wrong, bury my ashes somewhere my father won’t find them._

He tugged at the spell and brought the barrier down.  

Lots of things happened at the same time.

There were screams. A flash of the Anchor, Lavellan’s aura going tidal, Josephine’s high-pitched shriek, Bull’s roaring cry and the sudden bold of power as a mind blast tossed him to the side, Hawke’s wide-open, endlessly blue eyes, and, and – and – _pain –_

“ _You touch him and Dorian dies!_ ”

Hawke’s cry vibrated in the air, reaching his ears as if from very far away. Dorian looked down his chest. There was a hand in there.

An eerie, electric-blue grip was squeezing around his heart, cradling it tightly as it thumped its desperate rhythm. It hurt. Dorian never thought a heartbeat could hurt this much. He gagged against his will.

He felt Lavellan’s aura around him. It splayed wide, fiery and frantic. But everything was still and silent around them.

“Fenris.” Hawke’s voice was quiet. “Don’t.”

Dorian looked up, straight in the eyes of the former slave, and choked. He slumped down to his knees, and Fenris leaned over, his slim frame towering over Dorian’s.

“Any last words, _venalicius_?”

 _Do not vomit. Do not vomit. Do_ not _vomit, that would be a terrible sendoff._ “I… am… _sorry._ ”

Surprise spread through Fenris’ features, his sharp mouth twitching in disbelief. The grip on his heart loosened, and Dorian sucked in a breath of relief before continuing. “No-nothing could ever… ever… blot… out… w-what you’ve been through,” he wheezed, his tone indignantly high-pitched and breathy. But he was still alive. “B-but… on behalf of a-all magisters… _ouch!_ w-who… ever… made… you… suffer… _I’m s-sorry._ ”

Fenris’ face was blank in shock.

“Let go, Fenris,” Hawke said, her voice still quiet, but intent. “You don’t want to do this.”

That broke through his mask of dumb surprise, and Fenris started laughing. It wasn’t like before: a menacing, vengeful chuckling. It was more a desperate laugher of a man pushed to the brink.

“I don’t want to do this?! I _don’t?_ Look at us, Hawke!” Fenris shook his fist inside Dorian’s chest, and he couldn’t stop a pained yell. Lavellan’s aura was _exploding_ with frantic energy. “A proud Pavus at my mercy! And yet he still holds the leash, in control even on his knees! He _knows_ he is safe from all slaves, and I am-” Fenris suddenly bent down to meet his eyes. “Do you fear me now, Pavus?” Dorian nodded shakily, his eyes watering with pain. “Good! I was made to be feared by magisters. Through your magic, _Tevinter magic-_ ”

“Fenris,” said Hawke again, even more softly. Fenris shook his head helplessly.

“Why?” he asked into nothingness. Dorian closed his eyes, his breath coming in more and more ragged. There was dull thumping in his ears. _This was an extraordinarily dumb idea._ “He’s a magister! A slaver! A blood mage! Why… can’t… I… just… _kill him?!_ ”

“You can.” Hawke’s voice was devoid of emotion. “Will you?”

Dorian tensed up, waiting for more excruciating pain –

There was silence.

And stillness.

Fenris let out a mirthless chuckle. “Even after all this time, I am bound to serve.”

“Oh, _bullshit._ You’re the one making this decision, Fenris. Don’t put it on me. Or Dorian. _You’re_ the one holding his heart.”

Dorian dared open his eyes. Fenris’ face was pained, his gaze averted. Hawke was standing over them.

“He stands for everything you hate,” said the Champion of Kirkwall, and for the first time Dorian could understand why she was so. “But he wants to change.”

“And I am to… forgive? The years of torture and humiliation, gone for one _sorry_ squeezed out in his final moments?” Fenris’ face broke. “Is that what you want from me, Hawke? Forgiveness for all this?”

Hawke dropped onto her knees to face them. “You’re no longer the man who killed Hadriana, Fenris.”

“I… I can’t.” The hand on his heart quivered.

 _The little slave. The defencelessness of his bare skull, hard ridges of scars vengefully red against his skin._ “I-I remember… should’ve done… more. I… sh-should’ve… helped… you.”

“But you didn’t,” said Fenris, his voice empty of hatred now, dull and hollow.

Dorian slumped his head on his chest. _No, I didn’t._

“If you spare him, don’t do it for him,” said Hawke softly. “Do it for yourself.”

A long moment passed.

Then Fenris straightened his back, pulling Dorian upright with him. His wide, ashen-green elven eyes, _the only thing that hasn’t changed since those early days in the Magisterium,_ fixed on his.

“I do _not_ forgive you.”

Then, with a terrifying wet _shlump,_ his wrist slid out of Dorian’s chest.

The relief was overwhelming. Dorian stumbled backwards against the force of the lyrium, feeling two wiry arms catch his fall; through the half-closed eyelids he could see Fenris slump to his knees against Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall catching him into a tight embrace, his head falling to rest on her shoulder in an exhausted stillness. The brilliant blue glow of his lyrium died down.

Then the cheering erupted all around.

“Maker’s. Explosive. ASSCRACK.” Varric’s swearing could be heard from the other side of the crater, overriding the various _Maker’s breaths_ and _goodness graciouses_ of the advisors. “Chuckles, fuck. You doing this on purpose of what?”

“I’m just a natural protagonist!” Hawke yelled back without opening her eyes. It could be just a trick of his overexhausted mind, but Dorian could swear Fenris’ lips twitched at that.

That was all he could see before he was pulled into a fierce, tight embrace of his own, Lavellan’s lips crashing into his with the force of an earthquake. He couldn’t even muster a proper kiss back; he just let himself be pulled into the centre of radiance of _Fenriel himself._ His lover’s aura was still erratic, but with the undercurrent of relief that shimmered gold around his senses. “You stupid.” A kiss on the mouth. “Mad.” On the cheek. “Suicidal _._ ” On the arch of his brow. “ _Vint!_ ”

He heard Bull’s distant chuckle. “Easy there, Boss. Don’t overdo it.”

“As long as he doesn’t call me a magister, I’m fine,” murmured Dorian weakly into his shoulder. Lavellan snorted. And then – something sparkled in the air, the emerald light seeping through his closed eyelids, and suddenly Fenriel was not lovey-dovey anymore. Bull’s arms closed around him instead, tossing him over the ginormous shoulder like a sack of potatoes; Dorian scrambled to turn back, and to his terror the only thing he saw was the silhouette of Lavellan bathed in emerald glow.

“I’ll show you exactly how forgiving are the Dalish.”

The crowd around them hushed back.

“Inquisitor, perhaps-” Josephine again. That was just not her day.

 “I’ll say, exactly as much as it takes to accept Fenris’ display of goodwill and move on. How does that sound, hmm?” Hawke’s voice sounded dangerously careless. Dorian struggled against Bull’s steely embrace.

“You wouldn’t be so blasé if _Fenris’_ life had been in danger.”

“No, you’re right. But _I_ wouldn’t date a magister in the first place, so I guess you just have me there.”

“Champion-” That was Cullen. He didn’t go much further than Josephine.

“You all heard Dorian! He had slaves.” Hawke’s voice carried far, loud and clear and decisive. “And whereas I applaud his repentance, it does not close the subject.” A pause. “It doesn’t make it right.”

“So it is _right_ to rip his heart out as he’s trying to make amends?” spat the Inquisitor bitterly. Dorian could only imagine the fire in his eyes. “I knew of Dorian’s past. It is irrelevant-”

A low growl interrupted him.

“Look at me,” said Fenris. “Look me in the eye and tell me it is irrelevant.”

Silence.

Bull finally took the cue and let Dorian go. He fell on the ground gracelessly and, fighting the growing nausea, marched to Lavellan’s side. “They’re right, you know.”

“He _hurt you._ ” Fenriel’s eyes were wide open in anger and strange betrayal. “He was going to _kill you._ ”

“Maker’s sake, _amatus,_ not everything is about _me!_ ”

Well, he definitely deserved the chuckle from both Varric and Bull.

“Inquisition is about justice, is it not? You sit on your fancy throne and make judgements. Then make one right now, _amatus,_ but be fair. Cast aside our fling and think of the hurt I caused. Of the lives I commanded and wasted, not even noticing their worth. This is not right.”

“You didn’t know,” protested Lavellan weakly, his own defence on his lover’s lips. Dorian’s smile turned sad.

“No. But I could have, had I the heart.”

“Inquisitor.” Leliana’s voice sounded for the first time this afternoon, and it cast a silence deeper than anything else. “I believe Dorian is right.”

Lavellan looked around, helpless. “I cannot make that judgement. I am… compromised.”

“Then let me make it for you, as the Left Hand of the Divine.” Leliana stepped forward and looked Dorian in the eye, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. _Regardless of the Inquisitor’s personal reference._

“Dorian Pavus of Minrathous,” she said, softly and melodically. The crowd listened. “For the atrocities of slavery you partook in, and your blindness to it, this shall be your penance: you are left to a slave’s mercy.”

Everybody’s eyes were on Fenris.

Hawke bristled. “He is not a slave.”

“Pardon me, serah Fenris,” Leliana smiled with one of her soft, secret smiles. “My mistake, in wanting to make it more poetic for future tales. An ex-slave’s mercy, of course.”

Fenris nodded, his tired eyes looking into Dorian’s. Then he shrugged and turned away, walking back towards Skyhold.

The crowd erupted with cheer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn yo near-suicidal ass, Dorian. 
> 
> Up next: Epilogue, and people having some feels.


	8. Epilogue, in which the Inquisitor is not impressed, and the benefits of a good title are discussed

It was only his luck, Dorian mused, that the most dramatic story to have ever been written about him just had to happen during the _worst hair day possible._ He really should have made sure that when people from that crater described him in their tales, they should know to add the moustache.

The masons were already at work in the courtyard. Chargers were helping out, Dalish especially useful in making the heavy stone float around. ( _Magic? What magic? I’ll smack ya in the face and then you’ll see magic.)_ Solas was very likely going to have a heart attack once he saw the destruction of his dreamy castle in the sky. Once he was anywhere to be seen, that is; he’d been suspiciously absent since their arrival. Dorian checked the tower several times, and he was never there.

Then again, he had graver things to worry about than one hermit’s antisocial habits.

Josephine had not given him the expected scolding, instead just announcing in a tired voice that she would update him as the crises were being managed. Dorian presumed it was out of pity; if _seeing_ him get halfway-to-disembowelled was only fractionally as traumatising as it’d _felt,_ it was a decent enough hypothesis. He was grateful for the small mercies; between the revelations of slave ownership, blood magic, and a shouting match with a powerful ally, the telling-off he had escaped would have been of truly epic proportions. He did not envy the ambassador her job. Not one bit.

Not that he was getting out of it entirely unscathed. Lavellan had refused to talk to him. _Come upstairs when you’re ready,_ he’d just said, and Dorian’s heart had sank.

Dorian hated Talks. Oh, he could talk all day; his gift of the gab was of truly extraordinary quality, and he fancied himself a splendid conversationalist any day of the week. But the _Talks_ were another thing entirely.

He sighed, something heavy dropping into his stomach, and knocked at Lavellan’s door. It gave way without clicking.

Fenriel was sitting on the balcony, cross-legged and still, breathing in the mountain winds. Dorian knew he did this to calm down. He quietly closed the door behind him and wordlessly dropped on the floor next to his lover, calm and quiet enveloping him for the first time since he’d sat down with a book. On the day the party had left for Stormcoast.

He nudged Lavellan’s slouching shoulders. “Bad form.”

“Best I can do right now,” sounded a clipped retort, and Dorian fell silent.

For a long moment, they both sat apart, facing the steep slopes of the mountains and breathing in the cool, crisp air of the northern wind. He didn’t dare look at Fenriel’s face, instead focusing on his long, slender hands resting on his knees. Once, when they’d met, their fingernails had always been dirty and bitten, cut short for comfort and little else with regard to grooming. Over time, Dorian had taught him the leisure of proper nail care, painstakingly filling each one into an even almond shape and removing the obstructing cuticles to reveal their proper slender length. Those were a pair of beautiful hands; they were as much Dorian’s as they were Fenriel’s.

It was a comforting thought, even as his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. _Ah, at least it’s beating at all._

Finally, Fenriel sighed and turned to face him. “Humour me, _vhenan._ Imagine yourself in my shoes for a moment. You leave your home in a fairly stable shape, with your lover insistent that he would rather stay behind and catch up on reading, rather than sleep on hard wet surfaces for days on end.” That much was true. “You indulge him. You have a week of travel, closing rifts and ploughing through demons, and then you head home, confident that your lover would welcome you back happy and well-rested.”

_Well._

“Instead, he is not happy at all! He is clean-shaven and half-bald-”

“Now that’s low, _amatus._ ”

“-and he speaks in a strange foreign accent,” continued Fenriel without blinking. “Then, out of a sudden, someone tries to kill him before your eyes, and not only does he not fight back, he _steps into death himself!_ And as you step in to avenge him, he intervenes again, claiming himself to be deserving of that assault. He makes himself into a guilty man. He is given a sentence.”

All pretence of casualness was now gone from Fenriel’s voice. ”He admits to blood magic in front of a crowd. He admits to owning _slaves._ Later, you find out that he’s insulted one powerful mage that does not take insults well. Does he have a death wish, you wonder? Does he just hate himself this much?” 

“ _Amatus._ ”

“I am not done. Does he simply refuse to be helped, even faced with overwhelming odds? Does he not realise that all decisions he makes, ever since you bonded, are not his alone, but for the both of you? _Does he realise the consequences should he die?_ ”

Dorian felt a dull ache in his chest. “If you’re looking for a _sorry_ , just say so. I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my limit of impromptu apologies for the time being.”

“No.” Fenriel shook his head helplessly. “I’m trying to make you understand. And doing a lousy job at it, evidently.”

“I… do understand, _amatus._ ”

“Do you?” Fenriel turned to look him straight in the eye. “Do you understand how it was to watch you _inches from death,_ knowing that any word I said could kill you? Knowing that you thought you deserved it? Hear you _apologise_ to your killer?!”

To his terror, Dorian noticed tears in Fenriel’s eyes. He reached out, and the elf fell into his embrace gracelessly, the impetus of his jump knocking them both over. The red curls filled his vision, a warm shivering body clinging to him for dear life. “ _Why do you hate yourself this much?!_ ”

“ _Amatus,_ ” whispered Dorian helplessly, unsure what else he could say. Some things in his past… it was a relief to have the judgement.

He took a moment to consider how to phrase the difficult, heavy thing he was going to say, suddenly understanding Fenriel’s initial silence. They clung to each other on the hard stone floor of the balcony, the wind swishing above them.

“You need to accept this,” Dorian said quietly, once his head was clearer. “I have done some terrible things in my life, _amatus,_ you know that. And I regret them.” _Do you just see a thing?_ “But it’s not enough to just say that I was a different person then. Because the point I’m in… the privilege of being here, being powerful and knowledgeable, being… with you… I have got here because of the misery of others.” _Elves. Slaves. The poor. Little Wolf, the greatest prize of all._ “And all my life, I refused to see it. I see now.”

Fenriel stilled in his arms. “And so, Fenris…”

“It’s the least I could have offered, set against a lifetime of persecution. Maybe it meant something, or maybe it did not. It’s for him to decide.”

Fenriel propped himself up on his elbow, staring into Dorian’s eyes. “Is this about the argument we had?”

“Part of it. But not all.”

“Do you hate yourself?”

A frank, open question, but Fenriel did not ask other kinds. Dorian’s first instinct was to scoff and dismiss it; but he let the words hit him, wash over him, resound deep in his miraculously intact chest, before giving them the weight of consideration their deserved.

Fenriel’s face was clouded with worry.

“No,” Dorian said finally. “I don’t. I hate some things I’ve done and some things I’ve lacked, and I hate them very, very much. But I have the potential to do better. And I don’t deserve to die.”

“It’s funny,” said Fenriel in a small voice, still staring at him. “Part of me still wants to strangle you. Hate you for letting yourself get so close to death completely willingly. But another part… may actually be proud.”

Dorian reached out to kiss him. The elf allowed him, closing his eyes under Dorian’s lips.

They were still for a long moment, letting the tensions lower, breathing them out into the mountain winds, dispersing under the open sky.

“You know what that means, though,” Fenriel said after a while, his voice going slightly lower, into more purring registers.

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Do share your thoughts, o Lord Inquisitor.” His hand cupped Fenriel’s narrow cheek and skimmed up to stroke the sensitive ear. If the heavy part was over with, Dorian hadn’t seen him for a while…

“I’m not taking my chances with you anymore, _vhenan._ Whenever I leave now, no matter how hard and wet the ground… I _do not leave you behind._ ”

Dorian groaned. On the other hand, he thought, he probably deserved it.

 

-/-

 

His chest was probably fine, but Dorian decided not to take any chances. After all, it would be terribly inconvenient if a heroic death of the _eaten-by-a-dragon_ kind would be interrupted by something as trivial as internal bleeding. His battle medicine could only go so far, so the only logical choice from that point on was Solas; it had taken Dorian ages to actually catch the moment in which the elf had slipped back into the rotunda.

“A powerful magical signature,” Solas said, his hand coated in a warm green glow that seemed eerily familiar to Lavellan’s rift magic. It lied flat against the left side of his chest, checking and testing. “The lyrium warrior must be a force to be reckoned with.”

“I am very impressed, as long as he hasn’t left any of that force in my flesh.”

“Still, one could be forgiven to be curious…” Solas’ eyes glimmered with a green tint. “How was he persuaded to spare you? The intent here had been very much to kill, I presume.”

“Dear Solas, you must be the only person in the entire Skyhold not to know. I would almost love to keep it that way, the precious state this is. How did you miss the explosion anyway? You had ridden off just moments before.”

Solas’ expression crinkled in subtle distaste. “I, ah… dislike large impromptu gatherings. Surely you understand, Master Pavus, how overwhelming they can quickly become.”

“Some more than the others, evidently.” _Well, here’s the evidence for the antisocial hermit._

“Why did you survive, then?” asked Solas again, his tone docile, but Dorian could sense that for once the elf was well and truly curious. He would not usually bother repeating anything.

“Oh, you see: upon seeing me, the elf was so struck with my dashing good looks that he vowed to capture my heart in any way possible. Only after he had been persuaded that it is no longer in my chest but rather, in fact, already in the Inquisitor’s possession, did he finally agree to withdraw.”

Solas raised a single eyebrow.

“Or rather this is what would have happened in the perfect world.”

The hermit had quite an impressive deadpan, Dorian would give him that. “In our lousy world, however, where the gods of fortune still remain too stingy to afford me as a scriptwriter, I _apologised_ to Fenris. That, coupled with some emotional support from the Champion of Kirkwall, seems to have done the trick.”

“The Champion. How interesting,” said Solas in a contemplative voice. “And she would have her lover forgive a slaver?”

 _Don’t do it for him. Do it for yourself._ “I am explicitly unforgiven, but she did manage to convince him not to gut me. I’ll take the small smiles of fortune wherever I can.”

“And did the Champion of Kirkwall happen to use any magic at all during the encounter?” asked Solas again, uncharacteristically unfocused on the healing, and it was now Dorian’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

“My, my, Solas. You seem fixated on our lady Hawke. I’m not sure where all those questions come from, but I’m certain it’s a very interesting place indeed.”

Solas gave him a patient smile. “During my journeys to the Free Marches, I watched the duel with the Arishok in the Fade. What I saw impressed me deeply. I am curious if I have missed a more real display, that is all.”

“I have terrible news for you, then,” allowed Dorian, only slightly disappointed. It would have been nice to see Solas actually _care_ about something or someone for once. His monastic discipline was grating Dorian’s sensibilities. “There was plenty of frilly spells going around, including a rather deadly version of our humble caged lightning. That’s the one that busted a hole in the courtyard, if you haven’t noticed. I’ve never seen magic like that.”

“Ah. A shame, then. I would have enjoyed seeing it,” said Solas, his voice impeccably casual. The green glow faded from his hands as he stepped away from Dorian. “You are perfectly fine, Master Pavus. The lyrium left no marks save a signature. If anything, it’ll make you more energised. Thank you for answering my questions, too, I am now decided on what to dream tonight.”

“My thanks, Solas.” Dorian gave a little bow, and to his surprise, the elf gave a perfectly appropriate bow back. _Probably seen it in Tevinter, through the Fade again._ “Watch out, though, so that your dreamy haze does not become your only life!”

The elf chuckled softly. “That’s very kind of you to worry, Master Dorian, but this is now very unlikely.”

As Dorian climbed the spiral staircase, he considered the potential hidden meaning in the elf’s words; but, insignificant as it could have been, it eluded him. _It’s probably nothing,_ he concluded _._

They were sitting in the Herald’s. It was good to do that again without the looming threat of disembowelment. Maryden had retreated upstairs, claiming she was writing ( _kaffas, I do wonder what about_ ), and so Varric, Bull, Dorian, and Cole were sitting at the central table she’d vacated, each nursing their own pint. Dorian was pretty sure that Cole’s was filled with milk.

There was a pile of papers in front of both Varric and Dorian, the dwarf doodling carelessly on the scrolls. Dorian was pretty sure they were important.

“So, _Tale of the Champion, Hard in Hightown, Swords and Shields…_ ” Dorian said pointedly. Varric grinned at him.

“Could’ve sworn you’re angling for something here, Sparkler.”

“Cut it, dwarf. I have suffered enough of your writing to know exactly where the inspiration comes from. I _know_ there will be a story out of this whole dreadful affair, and _I want in._ ”

“I want in, he says.”

“Fifty percent of the royalties, and I will give you my inner monologue to write down.”

The dwarf’s eyes glimmered. “Twenty.”

“Oh, don’t be insulting. Twenty will not cover the beer bought during writing, never mind the trauma of actually having to drink it. Forty-five. ”

“Monetise the meaning, milk the mischief, but he really only wants the title,” announced Cole, and Dorian leered at him disapprovingly. Varric snorted.

“Thanks, kid. Thirty, and you get to choose the title.”

Dorian tsked. “I’m fairly certain there are laws against this.”

Bull laughed, his booming voice making several patrons on the other side of the Herald’s jump up on their seats. “Ha! And there are laws against being a little bitch, and yet here you are.” 

“Better a little bitch than a massive tool, my mother used to say,” retorted Dorian easily. “Listen to this, my dwarven wordsmith: _Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan._ Doesn’t this just roll off the tongue?”

The dwarf looked sceptical. “Dunno, Sparkler. It’s bit longer than my usual style.”

“And the tale has no Antiva,” added Cole very seriously. Bull laughed at that again.

“Kid’s right, you know. For all that yapping you did around about being Antivan, you didn’t do shit of proper undercover work. Shame I haven’t been around, instead of the ambassador. Would’ve taught you all sorts of Ben’Hassrath tricks.”

Dorian shuddered at the thought. “Thank the heavens you haven’t been around, then.”

“Aw, Vintey. You’re hurting my feelings.”

 “How do you know the elf anyway?” Varric asked, crossing something out on the parchments. It looked something like _Change of Heart Down South._ Dorian rolled his eyes; the dwarf would be hard-pressed to find a _worse_ title.

Bull hummed thoughtfully, a slightest smirk on his lips. “Ever told you I was stationed in Seheron? Couple years before the Inquisition, we were close to catching the main stronghold of the Fog Warriors. Siege of Seheron, they call it.

Varric’s eyes widened. “Wait, Tiny, you were in the Siege of Seheron?”

“Yep. Got a lightning to the head that day. Never connected the dots ‘til now.”

“Wait,” protested Dorian, waving his hand. “Little context here? Nor all of us are well-versed in Qunari battle history, you see.”

“Hawke and Fenris were in Seheron before coming back here,” said Varric. “Fought off a shitton of Qunari. Fenris became something of a demigod for the locals, too, if I got that right. Long story short, Sparkler, seems like you’re not the only one who’s had bad blood with the elf.”

“Nah.” Bull waved his enormous hand, nearly hitting Cole. Without looking, the spirit leaned out to avoid the smack. “That was Arvaraad business. I have no beef with the elf here, long as he keeps his shiny handsies out of my friends.”

“Hey, if Mr. Tevinter here can escape unscathed, I think we have nothing to worry about.“ Varric scratched out another botched title. Dorian leaned in to read it.

“ _Skyhold: Tevinter Showdown?_ Are you quite _serious?_ ”

Bull cocked his head. “Sounds good to me.”

“Because you, my friend, are a bloodthirsty beast.” Bull looked positively flattered. “That will just not _do._ You need more finesse in it. It’s a dramatic, poignant story of self-realisation.”

“Sparkler, half of it is just running around pissing people off.”

“That’s to keep the masses entertained!”

“Well, doesn’t that go just great with your newfound proletarian spirit.”

“ _Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan,_ ” enounced Dorian perfectly. “Or the deal is off and you can go ask _Solas_ for his inner monologue on the matter. I know from a first-hand source that the poor soul has managed to miss _all_ the fun.”

Varric looked unconvinced. “That won’t look good with my standard lettering.”

“Oh, I can take care of that too. I have an impeccable sense of aestethetics.”

“Like you took care of your Antivan hair?” snickered Bull. Dorian cast him a thunderous glance.

“ _It’s. Growing. Back._ ”

“He thinks it’s a fitting title,” said Cole, casting a secret smile at Varric. “He’s just annoyed he didn’t come up with it himself.”

Varric put up his hands. “Seriously, kid?”

Dorian grinned, setting the parchment down in front of him. It was gearing up to be a splendid collaboration. “ _Dorian Pavus, the Extraordinary Antivan._ Let’s see. _Dorian Pavus prided himself on being a bookworm first and an ass-kicker second…_ ” 

 

-/-

 

Before they left to Adamant, Dorian had just one more thing to do.

Hawke was turning the heavy box in her hands. “I, uh. He won’t take that, Dorian.”

“He doesn’t have to. I just needed to offer. It would be his decision before mine.”

It took a while to put together this much money; Dorian was not earning that much as a mage of the Inquisition, and he’d vehemently refused to use any of his family wealth. And the price of manumission wasn’t exactly affordable; if it were, the point of the system would be lost. But finally, the gold in the box was enough to set every slave in his house at least _legally_ free.

“If there is any better way to invest this…”

Hawke shook his head. “That’s super nice of you, Dorian, but I don’t think Fenris wants anything to do with you _or_ your money. The whole point is that people can’t be bought.”

Dorian threw up his hands. ”I _know_ that! Obviously!” He drew in a long breath, calming himself down. Hawke might have had a point. “I’m trying to atone, here. You can tell me if it’s bad. But Maker dammit, I’m _trying._ ”

Hawke flashed a toothy smile. “I know. It’s kinda endearing to watch.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Alright. I’ll take the money back, then. Put it in the trust that will go into immediate effect on all, ugh, _assets_ I own, and then on all family property as soon as it is passed down to me. If there will be anything at all, the way our relationship is these days. Would that be acceptable?”

Hawke eyed him up and down, those unreal blue eyes shining in a way that sent shivers down Dorian’s spine. _A Champion of Kirkwall, huh._ “You’re actually a decent man, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian feigned offence. “Do _not_ say that out loud again. My reputation will be utterly ruined.”

But it did feel extraordinarily good to hear it.

 

_fin._

 

 

 

**_Epilogue, in the voice of Fenris:_ **

_Out of the huts of history's shame_

_I rise_

_Up from a past that's rooted in pain_

_I rise_

_I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,_

_Welling and swelling I bear in the tide._

_Leaving behind nights of terror and fear_

_I rise_

_Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear_

_I rise_

_Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,_

_I am the dream and the hope of the slave._

_I rise_

_I rise_

_I rise._

                                                                       (Maya Angelou, _Still I Rise,_ 29-43)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we reach the end! Thanks so much for tagging along, and accompanying Dorian and Fenris in their respective journeys of self-discovery, acceptance, and justice. And crack. Cracky cracky crack. (I TOLD YOU it'd get serious. I TOLD YOU.)
> 
> Extra kudos to you for still reading DA fanfiction four years after the Inquisition came out! You brilliant, resilient human being, you. Here's to DA4 in the near future. In the meantime, you know, as we wait for it... feel like leaving a comment? You'll make my day. Thanks, bud. Love you.


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